Catch Me If You Can
by Marianna Morgan
Summary: Pre-Series – Hurt Sam, Hurt/Worried Big Brother Dean – Although Sam had been shot and beaten, he couldn't allow himself the luxury of lying there in the leaves; of trying to slow the rhythm of his breathing. Because they were still coming; were still tracking him through the woods. He could hear them.
1. Chapter 1

**Summary**: Pre-Series – Hurt Sam, Hurt/Worried Big Brother Dean – Although Sam had been shot and beaten, he couldn't allow himself the luxury of lying there in the leaves; of trying to slow the rhythm of his breathing. Because they were still coming; were still tracking him through the woods. He could hear them.

**Disclaimer**: Not mine.

**Warnings**: Maybe spoilers for the Pilot, but I think we're well past giving warnings for that one. Otherwise, just the usual language...especially in later chapters.

* * *

_And we'll run for our lives... ~ Snow Patrol _

* * *

He paused, shivering in the damp afternoon air even as he wiped perspiration off his forehead with his shirtsleeve, blinking in bewildered interest at the blood smeared on the fabric's cuff and across his wrist.

That was strange.

He remembered – quite vividly – being struck in the back of his head, but why was there blood on his forehead?

He reached up to touch the sluggish trickle he could feel sliding down the side of his face, smearing the blood over his jaw and down his neck as he did so. He stared at his red-tipped fingers, sweeping his thumb across the slick, yet slightly sticky pads as though he had never seen, never touched, never smelled blood before.

He felt alarmingly detached as he continued to stare at his fingers, and then sighed, squinting at his surroundings.

Where was he?

He sighed again, choking and then coughing on the exhaled breath.

It didn't matter.

He swallowed and stumbled unsteadily forward through the never-ending maze of trees, pushing the heavier brush aside with his left arm as his right hung at his side, useless and aching.

He wanted – his body begged – to stop and rest, but he didn't dare. They were close behind him, he knew – he could hear them – and if he stopped again, they would find him.

So he kept moving.

One foot in front of the other for what felt like hours, until his boot heel caught an exposed root, and he went down, sprawling on his face in the leaves and dirt; top teeth slicing bottom lip; molars clamping down on his tongue as his chin hit the ground. A strangled moan became a sharp cry, bloodied saliva spraying the foliage, as his injured body absorbed the impact; tears welling in his eyes from the pain and frustration caused by a royally fucked up day.

He closed his eyes, swallowing hard against the urge to throw up; an urge made worse by the metallic tang of blood as it slid down his throat, causing him to gag. His head and right shoulder throbbed in time with his erratic heartbeat; both caked with a mixture of dried and fresh blood, of sweat and dirt.

"Get up," he hissed at himself, knowing he couldn't allow himself the luxury of lying there, of trying to slow the rhythm of his breathing.

Because they were coming.

He could hear them.

Opening his eyes, Sam pushed himself up, vision graying and narrowing as he held himself off the ground on shaky arms; feeling blood ooze down the side of his face and dribble from his mouth; watching in detached fascination as the droplets splattered the leaves beneath him, sounding like the rain had earlier.

_Splat._

_Splat._

_Splat._

Rhythmic and lulling...

...and he needed to _get up._

Sam continued to push himself up and back until he was sitting on his knees, cradling his right arm against his chest as he swayed under the wave of dizziness.

"Up," he commanded and forced himself to stand, shocked at how much effort it took to rise, knowing he shouldn't be so tired. He had run a lot faster, a lot further, a lot longer than this many times.

Sam released a shuddering breath, willing himself to pull it together, and then he heard the encouragement he needed. Faint voices filtered through the trees. A short distance off, but they were getting louder and thus closer. A new surge of fear caused his heart to beat faster, and his feet to start moving again.

Funny how fear could energize, could put things in perspective. Life was context; and in the context of this situation, what had happened over the past few months was nothing.

And yet, it hadn't felt like nothing.

His life had been a jumble of kaleidoscopic contradictions since it had happened.

Since he had left for Stanford to the sound of his father's piercing words and Dean's echoing silence.

What had happened between them – between all of them – had disturbed on the deepest level. It was a mixture of crossed signals and secret selfishness, of bad timing, perceived betrayal, and a hint of fate.

As tensions had mounted that night, words had ricocheted like bullets, and actions had spoken louder than words.

Because Sam had left.

He had left, his heart wounded from the verbal shrapnel John had hurled at him – _don't ever come back_ – and from Dean's soul-crushing silence as his brother had stood there beside their dad and had said nothing, had done nothing but watch him leave.

It had all been as fascinating as a train wreck; as consuming as a barn on fire; as brilliant and cold as a sun-flooded winter's day.

The past few months had been an emotional tornado – brutally unnerving in its depth of destruction – and Sam had felt hopelessly bleak and disturbingly detached. College wasn't quite what he thought it would be, and the same could be said for the normalcy he had so desperately craved. Classes were hard, friendships were harder, and he wasn't sure if he could ever feel anything other than sorrow or anger ever again, wondered if the rest of his life would be bathed in lush regret.

But then came a call that changed everything – an undisclosed number at 2:00 on a Tuesday morning.

"Hey, Sammy."

And Sam had been instantly awake, simultaneously panicked, relieved, and pissed at the unmistakable sound of that voice; his own voice silenced by the lump of emotion that suddenly clogged his throat.

_Dean._

Dean had chuckled, undoubtedly envisioning Sam's reaction, able to pinpoint the exact moment a facial shrug morphed into an epic bitchface. "You doin' all right?" he had asked in that genuine tone that most had never heard.

And Sam couldn't help but smile because, regardless of hurt feelings, physical distance, and lapsed time, no one knew him like Dean; no one cared about him like Dean; and he had missed that, had missed his brother so damn much.

"Yeah," Sam had answered quietly, sounding as strangled as he had felt. He had cleared his throat and had tried again. "Yeah." An awkward pause. "You?"

"Yeah," Dean had responded and then there had been another pause. "Hey, um, listen...I know it's been a while, and things have been fucked up between us since...well, you know..."

Dean's voice had trailed off, and Sam had sighed in the silence. Yeah, he knew. There hadn't been a day that went by that he hadn't thought about, hadn't relived every detail of that night.

_Don't ever come back._

Followed by Dean's deafening silence.

"Anyway..." Dean had sounded as emotionally wrung out as Sam had felt. "Dad's on another hunt, but I think I got something up in your area...possible wendigo from the looks of it. Folks keep disappearing into the woods, and there's other details, too, but I can tell you about those later, if you're interested, if you want to come. Maybe leave on Friday; come back Sunday...or Monday...whatever works with your classes. What d'ya think? Are you in?"

Dean's offer had spilled forth in one continuous breath, as if his brother was afraid Sam would hang up at any moment. And at the mention of a hunt, Sam had considered doing just that. He had considered refusing, of politely thanking Dean for his too-little-too-late call and then telling his brother to fuck off while reminding him that his silence that night at the cabin had said it all, thank-you-very-much. A hunt? Seriously? After everything that had happened, after all the months that had passed, Dean was calling at 2:00 in the morning to invite him on a fucking hunt?

"Sam?" Dean had prompted.

And something in his brother's tone had instantly dispersed Sam's seething anger and made him realize what he had already known beneath the layers of hurt – Dean had missed him, too; Dean was sorry, wanted to make things right between them, and this was the only way he knew how; this was his brother's proverbial olive branch.

So, Sam took it, unsure of who he had shocked more with his response. "I'm in."

And so he was.

So they _both_ were.

They were in more than they could've imagined that morning when they had left his dorm.

Shouts snapped his attention to the present, and Sam forced himself to move faster through the dense underbrush. The rain had returned, stinging him in the face as he ran against it; branches clung to him, winding around him even as he snatched them off and shoved them aside, inwardly cursing at the worthlessness of his injured right arm.

In the next instant, he came up on the edge of a short bluff, barely visible in the fog created by the late afternoon rain. It was hard to tell how steep the slope was or how far down he'd have to climb, but there was no other choice.

Casting a glance behind him, Sam eased himself over the edge in a vain attempt to avoid further injury, but his progress down the hill was fast and uncontrolled; more of it spent sliding and rolling than actually climbing. When he at last hit the bottom with a hard, bone-jarring jolt, he gasped, instantly recognizing the breath-stealing, white-hot pain of broken ribs.

"Shit," Sam hissed breathlessly, his hands reflexively balling, grasping leaves and sticks and dirt, as he squeezed his eyes shut against the blinding pain – not only in his chest but also in his shoulder and arm and head and face and absolutely everywhere. He swallowed hard – he was _not_ going to throw up – as he took a shallow breath and slowly crawled deeper into the bushes, resting, trying to gather his thoughts, to figure out just what in the hell he was going to do while resisting the urge to cry out for his brother.

Sam pressed his forehead into the dirt, feeling tears glide down his cheeks to mix with the sweat and blood and rain.

_Dean._

When Dean had grabbed the rifle from Owen's hands, it had taken all the others by surprise – but not Sam. Dean had locked eyes with him an instant before he had lunged, and Sam had known the plan, had been prepared to move. Fear of getting hit themselves had caused the men holding him to release their grip, and Sam had jerked awkwardly to the side and slightly back. But – surprise, surprise – shitty luck had remained shitty, and the movement had not allowed him to escape injury; it had caused the bullet to slam into his right shoulder, throwing him to the ground even as Dean had yelled his name.

Owen had fired again, his cohorts had scattered to get out of the way, and the ensuing chaos had given Sam a chance at freedom.

"Sam!" Dean had yelled, still wrestling with Owen.

"M'okay," Sam had called back, dazed and unsure if he was lying or not as blood had seeped between his fingers where he had covered the wound with his left hand.

Dean had viciously planted a boot into Owen's chest, kicking him down and disarming him in one motion. "Run!"

"No!" Sam had immediately responded because he wasn't going without Dean.

"Sam!" Dean had yelled again looking beyond him, and Sam had known the rest, hadn't needed to turn to know the other men were already coming back to join the fray.

Sam had tried to sit up, gasping as pain shot through him.

"Run!" Dean had commanded again before ducking a punch and then throwing his own, a satisfying crack connecting with Owen's jaw. "Now!"

And Sam had heard the assurance as clearly as if Dean had said it.

_I'll be right behind you._

Sam had nodded, scrambling to his feet, ignoring the exploding pain in his shoulder, and had sprinted off into the surrounding woods. Angry voices had receded into the distance, and his body had hummed with adrenaline as he had run.

But he had stopped abruptly – so abruptly he almost fell – when he had heard a gunshot and what had sounded like a strangled cry of pain and outrage.

_Dean. _

Had they shot him, too?

Sam had turned, instantly forgetting his promise to Dean – that he would run – and had prepared to go back when he had heard Owen's voice remarkably clear in the distance.

"No witnesses. Run the fucker down!"

Ray's answering voice. "Both of them?"

Owen's icy reply. "Both of them."

_Both of them..._meaning him and Dean; meaning Dean wasn't dead, or so badly injured that he couldn't run; meaning they still had a chance.

Sam had then heard them crashing along behind him – Owen and Ray and two other guys whose names hadn't been called for him to know. He had heard them as they had traversed back and forth among the rows of trees; looking for him and Dean, unaware they were hunting hunters.

But that had been at least an hour ago, and now Sam was facedown at the bottom of a hill shrouded by bushes and undergrowth and yet still not safe. He sighed, shifting and wincing and listening. He could still hear movement and shouts among the trees, and he wondered where his brother was.

"Dean," he whispered as he shut his eyes against the crushing pressure in his chest, the intense throbbing in his head, and the fierce burning in his shoulder. His tongue swiped across his lips, tasting sweat-salted, rain-diluted blood and feeling the swelling around the split flesh. Gathering his strength, he squeezed his left hand between his chest and the ground and wiggled tentative fingers inside his shirt, trying to assess the damage.

The bullet had hit him high on the front of his right shoulder and then angled up, but – Sam gasped as his hand curled over bone and muscle, fingers pressing into his back – not out. There was no exit wound that he could feel, which meant the bullet was still in there, lodged somewhere beneath his collarbone. As gunshot wounds went, he knew he could have been hit in worse places – like the headshot Owen had been aiming for – but it still sucked that his dominant arm had been rendered virtually useless.

Further self-triage confirmed what he suspected; the collarbone was broken, having taken the impact of the bullet as it had tried to exit his body. Sam moaned as his body involuntarily twitched under the palpating fingers. The pain on the upper right half of his torso was so insistent and pulsed so strongly that he couldn't tell whether the majority of it was coming from the broken bone or the gunshot wound. And then there were the broken ribs, causing shallow, painful breaths, and the head wound he had received, compliments of Ray.

Shouts drifted toward him, still at a distance but considerably closer than they had been, and Sam knew he needed to move.

Again.

Nodding in agreement with himself – and then regretting it as dizziness and pain washed over him anew – Sam pushed to his feet, thankful that at least he hadn't been hit in one of his legs, and hoping the same could be said for Dean as he started running again.

He hadn't covered 100 yards before Sam staggered to a halt and breathlessly leaned against a tree, his chest hugging the bark. Unable to stop himself, he slowly slid down the tree's rough surface, feeling it snag his shirt until he was on his knees.

Sam swallowed, the scent of the damp tree and surrounding foliage renewing the nausea of before, and blinked rapidly. He couldn't see, his vision blurred by the intensity of the pain; he couldn't breathe, his inhalations excruciatingly shallow due to the broken ribs; and he couldn't think, his remaining coherence floating away on a wave of incomprehensible thoughts. He was only cognizant of one desire – to lie down – but knew if he did, he would never get up again.

So Sam knelt there; his face and his uninjured shoulder propped against the tree, and listened to the sounds of his pursuers echoing off to his right.

He couldn't afford this break. They were too close, and he needed to move.

Dean would want him to move, and he had promised his brother he would run and keep going.

But he was tired. It seemed all his life, all he ever did was run – whether literally or figuratively – and he was tired. So very tired.

Sam looked up at the tree towering over him like a guardian; its leaves whispering a lullaby; its unmovable trunk supporting his sagging body. He pressed his cheek into the rough bark, and he thought about Dean.

Dean was like this tree: solid, comforting, strong, supportive...

..._and silent._

Sam closed his eyes against the unwelcomed thought, but it was true. He loved Dean – there was no one he loved more – but his brother had been silent; hadn't said one fucking word when Sam had needed him the most; had just stood there and let their dad throw him out of their lives. And although he wanted to, Sam wasn't sure he was ever getting over that.

This trip, this hunt was supposed to make things better, though; was supposed to start making things right between them again. Sam couldn't fathom how, but he was willing to give it a shot because he loved Dean and missed him and, 18-years old or not, Sam still wanted, still needed his big brother. But now instead of hunting, they were being hunted.

The shouts were closer, and Sam sighed.

"Move, Sam," he mumbled to himself, bracing against the tree, feeling bits of bark embed under his fingernails as he pulled himself to his feet. He leaned there for a few seconds, and then shoved himself away from it.

He took four steps before his legs refused to support his weight, and he hit the ground hard, jarring his injured shoulder and broken ribs and throbbing head and crying out before he could stop himself.

Out of sheer determination, he lifted himself up onto his hands and knees, panting shallowly, blinking against his narrowing vision.

"C'mon...get...up," Sam whispered, and struggled to obey his own command, pushing up until he was half standing, half bending at the waist and was not surprised when one step landed him on the ground again, flat on his back.

He lay there, heaving for breath, staring up through the trees' branches at the late afternoon sun as it tried to push through the dark storm clouds. The rain had stopped again, now only drip, drip, dripping from the leaves above.

And in the next instant, the urgency to get up faded and was replaced by a curious peaceful detachment. He was floating up and away, and it didn't seem to matter as he shut his eyes.

_Don't ever come back._

Sam's eyes snapped open as he startled at the words, though not surprised they would haunt him even in his last moments.

_Don't ever come back._

It seemed John would get his wish after all.

Sam sighed and thought again of Dean, wondering if his brother would make it out alive and knowing he would be pissed, would be irreparably shattered once he found out that Sam didn't.

Sam blinked, feeling momentarily alert. That image of his brother – upsetting as it was – was vaguely familiar and made his heart constrict painfully, hurting as much as the memory of Dean's silence.

And it was then that Sam finally understood.

Dean's silence wasn't a communication of concurrence with their father's words and actions; it was only the reaction of a man on the verge of irreparably shattering from the sudden impact of loss.

Dean hadn't said anything because, for once in his life, he hadn't known what to say. His life had unraveled as quickly as Sam's had that night, and Sam felt embarrassingly stupid and selfish for just realizing now.

He smiled sadly; oddly light at the weight forgiveness had lifted. But he felt the expression dissolve, silent tears mourning for what could never be expressed in words and could never be fixed by time because it seemed he was out of both.

He could only hope that Dean had forgiven him, too; or if not, that he would in the future. Not that Sam would be around to know either way.

Suddenly, there was a voice – shockingly close – and the tramp of boots running toward him, shuffling leaves in their hurried approach.

This was it.

Sam closed his eyes and prayed for mercy as he waited for the end.

* * *

_**TBC**_


	2. Chapter 2

Although his eyes were closed, awareness slowly returned.

Throbbing head.

Burning shoulder.

Aching face.

And a persistent pressure in his chest.

Or rather, _on_ his chest.

Or maybe it was both – pressure in _and_ on – which would explain why he couldn't breathe.

Feeling panicked at the sensation, Sam shifted and then froze when his suspicion was confirmed; something was definitely on his chest. He could feel a body against his – rigid and tense, warm and heavy – and the realization only made his breaths shallower, his heartbeat faster.

He arched his back in a strained attempt to take a deep breath, to get away – but his only reward was more pressure and an excruciatingly shallow inhalation. Sam tossed his head and felt his legs and left arm follow suit, moving feebly against the weight that pinned him.

As he moved, he was vaguely aware that he was no longer in the open forest, cushioned by dirt and leaves, but somehow encased; his back against hard, damp, bone-chilling rock, his out-stretched hand and scrambling feet feeling the same.

Where was he?

How long had he been out?

Where was...

"Stop."

The whispered voice close to his ear and the hands on either side of his head made Sam do just that, as he felt simultaneously confused and relieved.

_Dean?_

Sam's left arm drew in, his hand wiggling between his chest and the weight that crushed him, fingers seeking confirmation; an unexplainable peace washing over him when they tangled in the worn leather cord and grasped what he knew was an ugly gold charm.

_Dean._

Despite their current situation, Dean smiled affectionately; knowing the instant Sam realized it was him and was strangely warmed by his little brother's reaction.

"You're okay," he assured quietly, even as he stared at the kid's gunshot wound within inches of his face; could see the swelling and bruising beneath the blood that streaked across Sam's forehead and around his mouth; remembered the vicious blows to the back of his brother's head; and worried about the damage he couldn't see.

As he catalogued Sam's injuries, Dean felt the warmth of affection turn into the burning heat of anger and revenge and wondered idly if Owen and Ray knew they had fucked with the wrong person.

Sam shifted beneath him, once again arching his back in a vain attempt to breathe, and Dean felt the tension and panic slowly returning to his brother.

"Hey."

Sam forced his eyes open and felt a hand on his forehead, sweeping his hair from his eyes. He tried to focus on the blurry image above him.

"D'n..."

"Shhh," Dean said softly.

Sam blinked. Dean hadn't told him to "shhh" in years; "shut the fuck up" was more his brother's style, and he was instantly concerned as to why Dean was being so quiet and gentle with him. Either he was in really bad shape, or they were in seriously deep shit. Or given their luck and the overall pattern of the day, both.

Dean's eyes were still locked on his. "Listen..." he whispered, as though that was explanation enough.

And it was.

Because Sam could hear the voices that had chased him all afternoon.

They were coming, drawing closer even as the thought passed through his mind. Owen, who had shot him; Ray, who had hit him; and the other two, who seemed to be incapable of independent thought, only doing what they were told.

Sam's eyes widened at the remembrance – deep shit, indeed – and the resulting panic instantly intensified the pain of his injuries. The throbbing of his head exploded; the fire in his shoulder ignited; and the sharp pain and crushing pressure in his chest was suffocating because he couldn't breathe – _he couldn't breathe!_

A soft moan moved up in his throat, and although he tried to swallow it, it came out anyway, a traitorous sound he knew they couldn't afford.

Dean's hand quickly pressed over his mouth, palm muffling the sound as his fingers splayed over Sam's flushed cheek. And somewhere in the back of his mind, Sam wondered why Dean's fingers were so cold...why everything was so dark and damp and hard...and why he couldn't breathe, couldn't manage a single breath without excruciating pain. The broken ribs and Dean's weight certainly contributed to the shallow inhalations, but there was something else – he could feel it inside of him – and he couldn't breathe because of it.

Sam gasped noisily, unable to stop himself, and felt the pressure of Dean's hand over his mouth increase as he did so; his brother's fingers digging into the side of his cheek, the message clear.

_Stay still; be quiet._

Sam glared weakly. _I know._

Dean returned the glare. _Then do it._

Annoyance flared in his eyes as Sam shook his head, struggling under Dean's grip as he tried to free himself from his brother's restraint. Unexpectedly amused, Dean removed his hand, quirking a small smile at the oddity that was his brother – seriously injured, slightly disoriented...and yet still a stubborn, defiant little shit.

Damn, he had missed this kid.

Sam held his gaze for a few seconds before closing his eyes, and Dean knew that his brother was turning inward, dealing with the pain and exhaustion and willing himself to be still and quiet and calm.

As silence settled between them, Dean realized Sam's hand was still between their chests, still tightly grasping the amulet – seeking comfort, communicating trust – and reminding Dean just how much he loved his little brother; just how much he had missed being a big brother in the past few months; just how much he had fucked up by letting Sam walk out of that cabin and out of their lives without saying a word.

_Don't ever come back_ would have surely been drowned out by the words that had clogged Dean's throat that night – _Please, _please_ come back._

Voices attracted his attention, and Dean's eyes lifted upwards as though he could see through the slab of rock inches above his head. His eyes flickered to Sam – not surprised to see his brother's eyes open again – and then back above them.

Sam shifted, incredibly uncomfortable, and became aware of something he hadn't felt earlier – his right side was saturated with...what? He awkwardly pressed his right elbow against his side, feeling the unmistakably warm, sticky wetness of blood but no corresponding pain.

If the blood were his, then there would be pain – unless...

Sam's attention drifted up to Dean.

_Unless the blood was Dean's._

The thought swept through Sam's mind, and with it, further remembrance.

The shot.

The strangled cry.

Dean was once again looking up, listening, and Sam took the opportunity to release the amulet and worm his left hand further down across their chests, pressing his fingers against his brother's left side.

Dean grunted and snapped his attention back to Sam, irritation and fresh pain flashing in his eyes but softening when he saw the raw fear and concern in his brother's because he knew that look. Over the years, Dean had seen that particular expression enough to know that the revelation that he had also been shot was sufficient to push Sam over the proverbial edge – and given their current situation, that was that last thing they needed.

Sam's quick inhalation produced a cough, startling them both, and Dean's hand once again slid over his brother's mouth. Sam began to shake his head even as he winced from the pain it caused, but Dean's other hand gently grasped his hair, halting the movement.

_Stop._

Sam blinked. _But..._

Dean shook his head. _I'm okay. _

And thankfully, he was. The bullet had just grazed him – and thoroughly pissed him off – but except for the usual pain of such a wound and bleeding like a bitch, Dean was fine.

Seeing the suspicion in Sam's eyes, Dean nodded for emphasis.

_Seriously. I'm okay._

Sam stared at his brother and swallowed, surprised that even something as basic as that caused intense pain throughout his entire body and stole his breath. At some point, without even realizing it, his left hand had grasped the amulet again, and he tightened his grip, closing his eyes as he sighed, annoyed that he felt on the verge of tears.

Dean sighed as well and moved his hand to rest on the side of Sam's neck, feeling his brother's blood smear across his own skin; concerned by how warm Sam felt; alarmed by how shallow the kid was breathing.

Dean sighed again.

Of all the words that would describe their current condition and situation, "okay" was not among them. "Royally fucked up" seemed to be a better description of the day's events – and of the past few months of Dean's life.

Dean firmly believed that any sentence beginning with "what if" was already two words too long, but he couldn't help letting his mind wander to such scenarios: What if Sam had never applied to Stanford? Or even if he had, what if he had never been accepted? Or even if he was, what if Dean had actually spoken up and supported him? What if he had defended his brother's choice to their father, instead of standing by in silence as John had thrown Sam out of their lives?

_Don't ever come back._

Dean closed his eyes.

What was done was done, and he certainly didn't have time to dwell on it now. Getting the hell out of here with himself and his brother alive – that's what he should dwell on...and yet he could not move his mind past what had happened a few hours earlier.

One minute he was hiking alongside Sam, annoyed that it had started to rain and wondering just how in the hell he was going to broach the topic of that night; and then once he did, just what in the hell he was going to say to repair their fragile fraternal relationship. And the next, he was smack in the middle of an execution.

Dean arched at eyebrow at himself.

Perhaps that was oversimplification.

The yelling and the swearing had certainly given ample indication that something less than a picnic among friends was taking place a few paces ahead. There had been three – maybe four – distinct voices, all male and all pissed as hell. From their distance, it had sounded like a typical, albeit heated, testosterone-filled exchange, but it had been five words that had put a whole new slant on the situation: _I'm gonna fucking kill you._

And it wasn't an empty threat.

Dean had halted immediately, and Sam had stopped when he did, his face cleared of the brooding mask he had worn since they had left Stanford that October morning and instead bearing an expression of confusion and alarm as his damp bangs had clung to his forehead.

Sam had glanced at Dean, his expressive eyes telling Dean what he had already known – they should try to save whoever was ahead.

Hunting things and saving people was usually their job description, but they had saved people from people before as well. Whatever needed to be done, they did; and although he hadn't been in the mood for this – he had just wanted to kill a Wendigo and make things right with his brother – Dean had known Sam was right.

Dean had sighed – his little brother had always been his conscience – and had slowly lowered his pack from his shoulder as he had reached for his gun.

And Sam had done the same.

Dean had noticed the movement – had felt a rush of pride and affection that even after several months apart, they were still in sync – and had cocked his head to the right, indicating which way he had wanted Sam to go.

Sam had nodded and had eased away from him, silent and lethal; a born hunter even if he hadn't realized it yet.

Dean hadn't walked a dozen steps before a single shot had rang out, followed by two words from a different voice than before: _You're next._

Heart slamming in his chest from the rush of adrenaline, Dean had given a quick glance to Sam – seeing his brother prepared to cover him – and had charged ahead.

"I don't think so," Dean had stated confidently. "Drop it."

His eyes had then swept the scene, taking in one man on his knees, hands tied behind his back; one man dead on the ground beside him, his face unrecognizable from the blast he took in the forehead; and three other men standing. The two facing him had been armed with pistols, and the one with his back toward him had a rifle braced against his shoulder.

The one that had been looking away from him – Owen – slowly, almost casually, had lowered his rifle and had turned around to face him, an odd smile on his face.

"Drop it," Dean had repeated, a hard edge to his voice. "Now."

The odd smile had transformed into a pleased smirk as Owen's eyes had looked past Dean. "You first."

Dean had felt his stomach clench as he had heard movement behind him, and in the next instant, Sam was standing beside him, blood flowing freely down the side of his face, and a gun pressed to his temple by another man.

Sam had glanced at him, looking as dazed as Dean had felt.

Dean had shaken his head, confused as to how this other man had gotten the drop on Sam so quickly and quietly. It had been unnerving – Sam was a damn good hunter and was not _that_ out of practice – and it had been the first indication of what was to come.

"Drop it," Owen had said and then had glared, seeing the indecision in Dean's face.

Dean had hesitated for a fraction of a second as his gaze had flickered to his brother.

Owen had thrust his chin at the man standing beside Sam. "Do it, Ray."

"No!" Dean had yelled, immediately releasing his gun and vaguely aware of the rustled thud it had made when it had hit the leaf-covered ground.

Owen had smiled. "Too late," he had declared in a singsong voice and had thrust his chin at Ray again, causing Dean's heart to momentarily cease beating.

Ray had nodded and smiled before jerking the gun away from Sam's temple and cracking the butt of it over the back of his head, lightening fast and gleefully brutal.

_One...two...three times._

"Get the fuck away from him!" Dean had yelled, savagely pushing Ray away from his brother as Sam had made a guttural sound – half gasp, half moan – and had fallen against him, had practically crumbled into Dean's arms.

Barely conscious, Sam had clung to him, his fingers digging into the leather of Dean's jacket. Dean had supported his brother with one arm while gently covering the back of Sam's head, feeling the warm seep of blood through his fingers mixing with the cool dampness of the rain. Sam had grunted at the pain his brother's touch had caused and had pressed his forehead hard into Dean's shoulder, seeking comfort and strength while trying to regain his bearings.

"It's okay," Dean had soothed, loud enough only for Sam to hear. "You're okay."

Owen had laughed openly and had directed his attention to Ray. "I love you, man."

Ray had responded with a laugh of his own and had come to stand beside Owen. "So," he had said as he and Owen had stood sideways, glancing between Dean and Sam and the other man still on his knees. "Now what?"

There had been a moment of eerie silence before Owen had turned to the man on his knees and had fired his rifle into his face. The man had fallen back immediately, and Owen had looked over his shoulder at Ray and smiled. "That answer your question?"

Ray had returned the smile, a gleam of admiration in his eyes. "Owen, you're one crazy sonuvabitch."

Dean couldn't have agreed more but didn't have time to dwell on it. Sam had feebly pushed against him, trying to regain his footing and had finally done so; had been standing beside him but still leaning toward him.

"You good?" Dean had asked.

"Mm-hmm," Sam had responded, but his eyes had told a different story.

And Dean had been livid, had silently seethed as he had felt Sam's blood drying on his hand in spite of the rain and had known it was doing the same in his brother's hair, matting the layers that covered, at best, one hellacious concussion; and at worst, a fucking skull fracture.

"Okay, enough of this shit. Grab 'em and let's get this over with," Owen had been saying when Dean had directed his attention back to him.

Dean had narrowed his eyes. Get _what_ over with?

"We're gonna kill them, too?" Ray had clarified, sounding excited at the prospect of two bonus kills.

Owen had rolled his eyes. "Well, we can't keep 'em as pets, you fucking moron. And we've got shit to sell back in the city, so move your ass."

"Shit" most likely translated to "drugs", if Dean had to guess. And this whole scene most likely was the result of a deal gone bad; or maybe some kind of gang-related bullshit; or any number of other fucked up situations that resulted from dealing with one of Dean's least favorite species: people.

"Wendigo, my ass," Dean had muttered and had heard Sam snort weakly in response.

"Should've done..." Sam had swayed into him, his long fingers digging into Dean's forearm as he tried to stay vertical. "...more research."

And Dean had agreed, but his mind had been too focused on the two men approaching him and Sam to be concerned with the details.

"Wait," Dean had said, stepping in front of Sam while keeping one arm behind him, braced against his brother's chest.

Owen had shaken his head and had lifted his rifle to his shoulder, aiming it straight at Sam's head. "Shut the fuck up, or he's first."

Dean's expression had hardened as he had swept the rifle barrel away from Sam and had stepped even closer to his brother, feeling Sam hover at his back, barely on his feet. "Fuck you."

Owen had smirked, seeming more amused than pissed...then instantly more pissed than amused. "Move him," he had said, directing with a side tilt of his head, and Dean had been moved accordingly to stand opposite his brother.

Owen had barely had time to refocus his attention on Sam before Dean had wrenched free and had lunged, knocking the rifle in Owen's hands and causing all hell to break loose.

Sam, though still dazed, had had enough presence of mind to jerk to the side; but when he had gone down anyway, Dean had known his brother had been hit. Sam had lain there, too stunned and concussed to move, until Dean had yelled at him in the ensuing chaos.

"Run!" Dean had commanded, still wrestling with Owen. "Now!"

Miraculously, Sam had done just that. And Dean had followed behind him moments later, pausing only when a bullet had dug across his side. In pain and thoroughly pissed, Dean had kept going, running in the direction he had seen Sam go and hearing the others crash behind him – behind _them_.

It had been two hours later – and the rain had finally stopped – when he had literally fallen over Sam lying unconscious in the bushes at the bottom of the hill.

"Shit," he had hissed at the discovery of his brother and then again when he couldn't get a response from Sam.

Continuing to hear voices in pursuit and having had no other choice, Dean had stumbled to his feet, lifting Sam as he rose; bracing the kid's injured arm against his chest; holding his brother like an offering as Sam's head had lolled back over the crook of Dean's elbow, and his left arm had dangled freely. To anyone that would have seen him, they would have sworn that Sam was dead.

_Dead._

_Don't ever come back._

Dean opened his eyes and shook his head to clear the image and the words because Sam wasn't dead. His brother was alive and shoved beneath him as they were shoved between two slabs of rock created by an undercut carved into the side of the hill.

And although Dean was pissed they had been forced to hide, he was thankful it had been an option at the time. Because no matter how awesomely badass he was, even he, unarmed and injured, wasn't a match against four armed men; and even if he thought he was – and, to be honest, he did think that – he wasn't going to risk Sam's life to prove it.

So when Dean had seen the cave-like space – entirely too small to house a Wendigo, unless it was a mutant Smurf variety – he had immediately shoved Sam inside, which was an almost impossible task given his brother's size and injuries and state of unconsciousness.

Once Sam was situated, Dean had lingered on the outside edge, crouching and listening, trying to decide his next move. Finally concluding that getting himself killed would accomplish nothing except placing Sam in more danger, he had quickly covered their tracks and climbed in after his brother.

And so, here they were.

And they were no longer alone.

Dean blinked at the sound of voices, unnervingly close.

He glanced at Sam, gently squeezing the kid's left shoulder to alert him to their visitors, and then looked back up as his brother followed his gaze.

Boots rustled leaves as the now familiar tone of Owen's voice drifted down to them, followed by Ray's response. Dean felt Sam tense beneath him, and he gently placed his hand over the kid's mouth – just in case – and locked eyes with his brother.

_It's okay._

Sam closed his eyes, swallowing another moan and resisting the urge to once again arch his back in an effort to breathe more deeply.

Owen and Ray continued their discussion; their voices clear, their words not as much as their boots continued to shuffle through the leaves, sending clumps of soggy, decaying foliage down over the opening of the brothers' hiding space.

All at once, Sam started to shiver; the dampness of his clothes, the shock of his injuries, and the all-consuming fear deciding now was a good time to do so. Dean felt Sam's jaw clench beneath his fingers, his brother trying to steel himself against the tremors coursing through his body.

Fighting a losing battle, Sam's eyes snapped open, panicked, knowing they couldn't risk movement, no matter how small. Carefully, Dean removed his hand from Sam's mouth and drew him closer, awkwardly trying to stretch his leather jacket further around his brother as he lightly rested his forehead against Sam's; touch conveying comfort that words couldn't.

_Relax. We're okay._

Sam's grip tightened around the amulet in response, wondering if it really had protective qualities; remembering the night he gave it to Dean; strangely thankful that if he was about to die, at least he was with his brother.

Tears welled in Sam's eyes as he was reminded of all the times they had laid together as children in nameless motel rooms in countless towns, alone but together. And that always made it better; was all that ever mattered; was what he had missed the most over the past few months.

A few errant sticks tumbled over the ledge, causing Sam to flinch, as boot-clad feet stepped down into the mud, sucking and squishing in the muck as they proceeded to walk a tight circle around the opening of the small cave. Another pair of boots joined the first, then another, then another. Owen and Ray and the other two were still talking in low voices as they moved closer.

Dean's thumb moved rhythmically over Sam's uninjured shoulder, soothing his brother even as he himself felt a flutter of panic. For a spilt second, as the toe of one's boot swept mere inches from him, Dean doubted himself; wondered if he had covered up their tracks as well as he had thought; second-guessed having holed up in their current space; pushed down the wave of vulnerability that rose within. But in the next moment, the voices and the boots of those voices began to move away, still in the general area but not as unnervingly close.

Dean sighed inwardly and felt Sam's grip loosen on the amulet, felt his brother's trembling cease and his body go lax. Instantly concerned, Dean lifted his head, noting Sam's closed eyes and slightly parted lips, but gently squeezed the kid's shoulder anyway. Receiving no response, Dean brushed his thumb over Sam's neck, feeling the erratic pulse; allowed his hand to hover over his brother's face, feeling the soft, barely-there puffs; swept his hand under Sam's bangs and over his forehead, feeling radiating heat and the sticky dampness of sweat and blood.

A fresh wave of helplessness arose – because Sam needed assistance Dean could not currently give him – but it was quickly replaced by anger, because Dean was pissed. Pissed that his little brother was critically injured; pissed that he himself had been grazed by a bullet; pissed that Owen and Ray had somehow gotten the upper hand and had forced them to cower like rabbits in a hole when all Dean really wanted to do was kick their fucking asses.

Dean closed his eyes briefly – willing himself to calm down, to control his harsh breathing – but opened them again as he heard Owen and Ray return, their voices closer than before, if that was even possible.

Instinctively, Dean tightened his grip around his brother and rested his head against Sam's as he prepared to wait them out.

**_TBC_**


	3. Chapter 3

**_I don't usually write author notes in the beginning of posts, but I should probably mention that there's lots of F-bombs in this chapter because Owen and Co. are potty mouths; and then one attempted mother-of-all-F-bombs because Dean is beyond pissed. _**

* * *

Dean stared down at Sam – one hand resting on his brother's too-warm forehead while the other monitored Sam's breathing and pulse – and then glanced at Sam's steadily oozing shoulder wound, wishing he could see the wound on the back of his brother's head as easily. The suddenness with which the kid had lost consciousness was concerning; but even so, Dean was relieved that one of the many issues facing them had been resolved for the moment, because Sam wasn't going to move or make a sound if he was unconscious.

But the relief was fleeting.

Sam needed help – had needed it hours ago – but Dean could still hear the voices of Owen, Ray, and the two others as they continued to stand mere inches from where he and Sam hid.

Dean clenched his jaw, his anger at being trapped suddenly renewed, as was his determination to get even. The gun Owen had forced him to drop had not been Dean's only weapon. John Winchester had been a soldier and had raised his sons as soldiers; and if Dean was anything besides handsome, awesome, and badass, he was well-armed. Even now he could feel the tightness of the ankle holster strapped around his leg and the grainy texture of the gun's grip as it pressed into his flesh, likely leaving indentations from the way he was laying on it.

Dean felt a wave of satisfaction pass over him – because whether those assholes knew it or not, this was not over – and then frowned as he realized Sam was once again shivering beneath him.

Instantly refocused, Dean shifted ever-so-carefully to pull Sam even closer to his chest and further wrap his leather jacket around his kid brother, resting his chin on Sam's head.

It was damp and cold in the cave-like space created by the undercut in the hill, and Dean could tell by both the temperature change and the shifting shadows that the sun was beginning to set. It would be dark within the hour. If he was going to have any chance of getting Sam back to the Impala before nightfall – and that was certainly his preference – then he needed to move, he needed to...

"Man, this is fucking bullshit!"

Dean blinked at the sudden outburst from outside the cave, not recognizing the voice but immediately knowing Owen's when he answered.

"How's that, Frank?"

"Because they're dead!" Frank responded, apparently missing the warning in Owen's tone, since annoyance was dripping from his. "We're out here on a fucking wild goat chase and – "

"It's _goose_ chase, you fucking moron," Ray's voice interrupted. "A wild _goose_ chase."

"What?" Frank asked, his tone and hesitation in responding clearly conveying confusion at the turn in conversation.

Dean felt the corner of his mouth twitch in unexpected amusement. Who would guess that murderous drug lords gave a shit about whether it was "goat chase" or "goose chase" and would actually stop long enough to debate the issue?

Ray sighed – as scholars do with dimwitted pupils – and corrected Frank again. "It's _goose_ chase."

"He's right," Owen said, and Dean could hear Owen's boots rustling the leaves as he moved away from the opening of the undercut in the rock's ledge and, Dean assumed, closer to Frank.

"Who the fuck cares?" Frank yelled. "The point is we're out here looking for two guys who are _dead_! They're fucking dead!"

"Well, guess what?" Owen asked conversationally, and although there was still annoyance in his tone, Dean could picture him wearing that strange smirk he had when he had first faced Dean a few hours ago. "So are you."

A single shot then echoed through the trees, causing Dean to instinctively curl tighter around Sam, shielding his brother even though they were not directly threatened.

At least, not yet.

If there was ever any doubt about the degree of instability or ruthlessness in Owen, it was just clarified; because Dean didn't have to see to know that Owen had dropped one of his own men, leaves muffling the unmistakable thud of Frank's body hitting the ground.

"What the fuck?"

That the question did not come in Ray's voice but in the other man's told Dean that this was part of the plan; that Ray knew exactly what Owen was doing; and that the other guy did not.

"What the fuck?" Owen repeated, his tone mockingly sarcastic. "He's been conducting his own deals on the side, that's what the fuck!" There was silence. "But you knew that. Didn't you, Jake? You were in on them, too."

Dean could picture Owen smirking again, enjoying this the way a cat enjoys playing with a mouse before the kill.

There was silence, and although he hadn't paid much attention to Jake, Dean could imagine his expression as he realized he was caught in a lie and that his delayed response confirmed whatever suspicions they had.

"Jesus!" Jake yelled, his voice strained with frustration and desperation, and Dean wondered if Jake knew he was next.

Whether he realized it or not, the thought would not have had time to pass through his mind. In the next instant, there was another shot, followed by the thud of Jake's body dropping to the ground.

There was a beat of silence.

"Guess he was talking to the wrong person," Ray laughed.

"Guess so," Owen agreed, and Dean could hear him and Ray as they moved closer to each other now that business was over.

"You think they're dead?" Ray asked, and Dean knew he wasn't referring to Frank or Jake; he was referring to them, to him and Sam.

"Fuck no," Owen responded, a cold edge to his voice. "But when we find them, they will be."

Dean clenched his jaw against the swell of rage that Owen's words freshly ignited within his chest. _Not if I kill you first, motherfu..._

"Who were they?"

Ray's voice interrupted Dean's thoughts, and Dean closed his eyes, trying to calm himself even as he could picture Owen shrugging indifferently as he replied.

"Doesn't matter."

And for some reason, Owen's nonchalance made Dean smile. Because the dumbass really had no idea, no clue at all who he was fucking with.

"Guess not. No witnesses, right?" Ray said, echoing Owen's earlier declaration.

"Right," Owen said simply, and Dean could hear him as he collected the guns from Frank and Jake and then stepped back onto the ledge above where he and Sam were hidden.

Ray did likewise as his voice floated down. "It'll be dark in an hour." Dean could hear their boots overhead. "It'll be harder to track them then, and if Mr. Henry finds out we let them get away, he'll – "

"Shut your fucking mouth!" Owen snarled, and Dean lifted his eyes as though he could see through the rock and view the scene above; Owen's face within inches of Ray's as his hand balled the fabric of his shirt. "We'll find them and take care of them because if we don't..."

Owen's voice trailed off, but the implication was clear; if they didn't, then Mr. Henry would take care of _them..._and not in a good way.

Dean knew it as well as they did, and he didn't even know this Mr. Henry.

"Dude, chill the fuck out," Ray yelled, and Dean could hear his boots scuff against the rock as he snatched away from Owen's grasp. "I wasn't saying we wouldn't find them. I was just saying what a bitch it was gonna be to track them in the dark."

There was silence, and when Owen spoke again, he seemed calmer. "We've done it before. But first we need to head back to the truck for the flashlights and more clips."

"Shit, man. That's at least half an hour's walk, just one way, and then we gotta come all the way back out here."

And although Ray was complaining, Dean felt a rise of optimism at the realization that he and Sam had at least an hour before Owen and his partner returned.

"Then move your ass," Owen snapped, his voice becoming less clear as he and Ray moved up the hill. "And on our way back, we'll get those two other fuckers we left behind and bring them down here to throw in the lake with Frank and Jake."

"'...in the lake with Frank and Jake,'" Ray repeated, then paused. "Hey. That rhymes," he pointed out, his voice barely audible to Dean.

Owen grinned. "Thank you, Dr. fucking Seuss," and Dean could hear him laugh in the distance.

**_Thanks for reading! Next chapter posted on Friday._**


	4. Chapter 4

The darkness lifted from within as sensation slowly returned.

His head throbbed in time with his erratic heartbeat; pulsing in his temples and behind his eyes; hammering the back of his skull and then radiating an icy burn down his neck, seizing the muscles deep within and causing them to quiver and cramp. Excruciating pain blazed a fiery path from his right shoulder down his arm to his chilled, tingling fingers, while his left arm felt strangely numb.

His face felt tight from the swelling and dried blood under his left eye, across his cheek, and on his bottom lip; his flesh stung in various places as sweat seeped into open cuts.

His mouth was uncomfortably dry, yet his tongue was coated with the unmistakably slippery tang of blood, causing him to convulsively swallow against the urge to throw up.

But it wasn't working.

Sam swallowed again as thick saliva flooded his mouth and then inhaled deeply.

Or at least, he attempted to inhale deeply but choked as his breath stuttered to an abrupt stop, unable to overcome the crushing pressure in his chest. He wheezed and then gasped at the piercing pain of broken ribs grinding against each other beneath his skin as the weight of something – something _heavy_ – continued to crush him.

Panicked, Sam coughed feebly and shifted; then froze as he felt a hand slide over his forehead, sweeping his sweaty, blood-matted hair from his eyes.

"Easy."

The familiar touch and gentle voice instantly soothed, and although Sam was still disoriented, he melted against the solid presence he now recognized as his brother.

"D'n..."

"Shhh," Dean said softly, knowing it was probably okay to speak now – since it had been at least fifteen minutes since Owen and Ray had left and gone back up the hill – but not wanting to risk it just yet. Another five, maybe ten minutes, and they would move.

Sam coughed again and then forced his eyes open, blinking as he tried to focus on the blurry image mere inches above him. He frowned, continuing to blink sluggishly and wondering why it was so dark. Because he couldn't really _see_ Dean; just knew the hazy outline hovering above him was his brother.

Dean stared back at Sam and rhythmically swept his thumb between his brother's eyes, smoothing out the confused frown that had to make the kid's head hurt even more than it already did. "Hey. Relax, huh?" he quietly urged. "You're okay."

Sam inhaled with difficulty – he sure as hell didn't _feel_ okay – and slowly became more aware.

Hard.

Damp.

Cold.

Dark.

And then Sam remembered where he was – _the cave_ – even if he didn't remember why or how. In fact, he couldn't remember anything beyond running.

Sam closed his eyes again. "I don't..." he inhaled noisily "...like it...in here."

And despite their situation, Dean chuckled quietly. If Sam was coherent enough to bitch, then maybe he was in better shape than he looked. "I know, princess."

There was a beat of silence.

"Out?"

Dean smiled – feeling strangely sentimental at the memory of a toddler Sammy asking the same question as he stood in the middle of a motel room, alternately glancing between his big brother and the door – and then responded as he often did all those years ago. "Not yet, Sammy."

So sure of Sam's immediate reply, Dean mouthed it with him. "Why?"

Dean quirked another smile. Did he know this kid, or did he know this kid?

Sam's eyes were still closed, but he seemed to become more restless as his legs and uninjured arm began to move. "Why?" he repeated.

Dean shifted, his back cramping from holding one position for so long. "Remember our friends, dickhead and douchebag?"

Sam's confused frown reappeared. "Who?"

"Owen and Ray. Remember?"

Sam swallowed.

Dean narrowed his eyes. "Sam?"

"Hmm?"

"You with me? You remember?"

There was silence, which was answer enough.

Sam didn't remember.

Which, when paired with loss of consciousness, pointed to what Dean had suspected all along.

_Hello, concussion._

Dean sighed, watching as Sam's closed eyes squeezed tighter and feeling his brother tremble beneath him as the kid endured a fresh wave of pain. Maybe Sam didn't remember Owen and Ray and what they had done to him, but Dean did. He clenched his jaw as his mind suddenly flashed the image of Ray savagely beating the back of Sam's head with the butt of the gun – _one, two, three times_ – and then immediately switched to Owen, firing the rifle.

Sam once again shifted, jarring Dean from his thoughts.

"Out."

And it was not a request this time.

Dean snorted softly, amused at Sam's one-track mind – a proverbial dog with a bone – but concerned that his usually verbose brother couldn't seem to manage more than single words.

"Out," Sam repeated, his voice hoarse and breathy; his movements weak and uncoordinated as he pushed against Dean.

"Two more minutes," Dean promised, once again sweeping his hand under Sam's bangs and frowning at the heat he found there. As cold as it was in the cave – with the temperature steadily dropping as the October sun was beginning to set – Sam shouldn't be burning up. "Just hang on two more minutes, Sammy."

Sam grunted his displeasure at Dean's answer and arched his back in a strained attempt to take a deep breath. But his only reward was more pressure in his chest and an excruciatingly shallow inhalation, further fueling his sudden claustrophobia and overwhelming desire to get _out_.

Increasingly agitated – because he was suffocating; slowly and torturously suffocating in a hole underground – Sam tossed his head, ignoring the flare of pain as he did so. He felt his legs follow suit, moving feebly against Dean's weight as his left hand reflexively bunched and released, then bunched and released the fabric of his brother's shirt, tangling in the amulet's cord.

"Out."

"Sam..."

Sam pressed his forehead hard into his brother's chest, continuing to bunch and release Dean's shirt, soothed and yet strangely energized by the repetitive motion. "Out. Out. Out. Out. _Out._"

Dean frowned, recognizing the signs of a panic attack and knowing he had less than five seconds before he would be dealing with a fully freaked-out little brother. "Hey," he called, worming his hand between their chests and grabbing Sam's hand, prying the kid's grip away from his shirt. "Stop."

Sam wheezed – his breaths ragged and noisy – and felt his heart slam in his chest as his head pounded, his shoulder pulsed, and his entire body shook from trauma and exhaustion and panic. "Dean..."

Sam's unguarded, whimpered cry of his name freshly ignited Dean's big brother instincts, causing him to simultaneously want to fix what was wrong and kick the ass of whoever had caused Sam pain and distress.

_Owen and Ray._

Dean's jaw clenched at the thought of them – because he fucking _hated_ them – but he knew before he could introduce them to his Taurus, first things were first. And for Dean, Sam always came first; especially an injured, not-quite-with-it Sam.

Dean laced his fingers with Sam's and squeezed. "Hey. Look at me." He pulled back as far as he could and lifted his brother's chin with his other hand. "Look at me, Sam."

Sam's eyes snapped open. "Where..." His voice faltered even as his grip on Dean's hand tightened. "I c-can't...see you." The realization caused a stab of panic as the pressure in Sam's chest instantly increased. "Dean..." Sam gasped the word; fear knifing through him, confusion clouding his thoughts. "Am I...am I blind?"

So startled by the question – and terrified by even the mention of such a possibility – Dean responded before he could stop himself. "Fuck, Sam! Don't say shit like that!"

And then there was silence.

Sam felt as though his brother had physically struck him, and although he knew – disoriented or not – that Dean's explosive reaction and harsh tone was caused by worry and fear, his brother's words still sliced through any trace of composure he had left; causing tears to well in his eyes and slip down his cheeks; mixing with blood and dirt and sweat, the salty moisture further stinging his tender flesh.

"Sorry," Sam whispered, his face contorting from pain and confusion and the effort of trying to hold back a fresh wave of tears. "Dean, I'm...sorry."

Dean rubbed his hand over his face and stared down at his brother. Only Sam would be shot, concussed, exhausted, confused, unable to see...and yet still be the first one to apologize; to be genuinely sorry for upsetting Dean, when Dean was the one acting like a dick.

Dean shook his head, disgusted with himself and freshly pissed at this entire situation – and at the people who had caused it – but realizing he really needed to get his shit in one bag. He would be no use to Sam if he didn't harness his emotions and chill the fuck out.

_In five...four...three...two..._

Dean slowly exhaled – his churning emotions settling into a familiar, unexplainable peace that always occurred whenever he shoved them down – and felt his usual calm, cool, and collected demeanor return.

Because this was nothing he couldn't handle.

Dean slowly exhaled again and then glanced down at his brother, feeling more protective than he had in a long time.

Which was ridiculous.

Sam was a trained hunter; a veteran of dangerous situations, difficult choices, and potentially life-threatening injuries. He was a pioneer in this brave new world of normal in which he had chosen to immerge himself and was as smart and capable as he was head-strong and independent. At 18, Sam was an adult now.

But as Dean continued to gaze down at his brother, all he saw was a scared, injured kid – _his_ kid – who was overwhelmed and confused and feverish and was once again dependent on his big brother. And although Dean didn't relish the idea of Sam being anything but healthy, happy, and safe, he would be lying if he said it didn't feel good to be needed again; to know his little brother was trusting him and depending on him even after everything that had happened a few months ago.

Sam inhaled shakily and then coughed, jarring loose fresh tears of pain. "Dean?"

Dean smiled affectionately. "Yeah. It's okay, Sammy. I'm right here."

And although Sam knew he was, he still visibly relaxed at the sound of his brother's voice. "I'm sor – "

"Hey. Don't apologize," Dean interrupted, gently thumbing the moisture from Sam's battered face, an apology displayed in actions and hidden in words. "It's not your fault I'm an asshole."

Sam laughed, immediate absolution granted in one weak, wet sound before his breath hitched abruptly, and he coughed again.

Dean frowned – because Sam was coughing too often, was having too much trouble drawing a full breath – and lightly rested his hand on the kid's sternum. "Easy," he urged, seeing his brother nod once before continuing. "Now you listen to me, drama queen. You are _not_ blind, and if you say that again – _ever_ again – I'll kick your ass. Got it?"

Sam blinked, looking like a confused puppy. "But I – "

"Can't see," Dean finished. "I know. But it's dark in here. And even though you don't remember, you were whacked in the head three or four times, so I wouldn't expect you to be able to see clearly. You're concussed, Sam. That's all."

Which Dean knew was an understatement, because it was never that simple. But Sam didn't seem to remember, and Dean wasn't going to remind him right now. They would take one thing at a time, and right now, it was time to get back to the Impala before Owen and Ray returned.

"Alright, Sammy," Dean sighed, shifting in preparation to move. "What d'ya say we get the hell outta here, huh?"

Sam winced as Dean's knee jostled him. "'Kay."

"Okay," Dean agreed, placing his hands on either side of Sam's body and pushing himself backwards, hissing as pain suddenly ignited in his side.

_Holy Mother of..._

Dean froze as he closed his eyes, his hands reflexively balling into fists, collecting dirt and leaves as they did so. In worrying about Sam and everything else, he had somehow forgotten about his own injury – only vaguely aware of a dull throb over the past couple of hours – and being so vividly reminded of it now only pissed him off.

"Shit," he growled.

Because seriously; he didn't have time for this.

And although Dean couldn't see him from this angle, he knew Sam was trying to sit up; was using all the strength he had to lift his head; was straining to see what had happened. "Dean..."

Dean pressed his lips together and then slowly exhaled. "It's okay, Sammy," he replied tightly. "Just give me a minute."

And Sam obliged, needing a minute himself since changing positions so abruptly made him want to hurl. His head felt like it was going to explode, and every nerve ending in his body was in fiery, tingling overdrive. And...

Sam swallowed.

Oh yeah. He was definitely going to hurl.

Sam swallowed again as he struggled to push himself on his side; knowing if he threw up while on his back, he would have a whole new set of problems. "Dean..."

Dean opened his eyes immediately, his pain lessening as he refocused; because he knew that tone of voice. Sam's I'm-gonna-throw-up voice hadn't changed since he was three-years old. Whether his brother was injured, sick, or drunk, Dean always got the same warning – his name called in that distressed tone – about ten seconds before the kid puked.

"Ah, shit. Hang on, Sam," Dean urged, hands flattening against the ground as he began to push himself backwards again.

"Hur – " Sam's voice choked to a stop mid-word – _hurry_ – as he gasped, then gagged.

But didn't throw up; Dean could tell that, too.

"Don't do it, Sammy. Mind over matter, man," he encouraged, continuing to push himself back and then frowning as his feet suddenly met with resistance just outside the cave.

_What the hell?_

"You hear me, Sam?" Dean asked as he pushed harder, realizing all at once that he was pushing against either Frank or Jake, lying dead in the leaves. "Sammy?" he called, his brother's silence fueling the sense of urgency as he savagely kicked and twisted, willing himself to ignore the searing pain in his side until he was free.

Giving a final kick to whoever's body had blocked his exit – which was difficult to determine since they had both been shot in the face – Dean backed out the entrance of the cave and pushed himself to his knees; then reached under the ledge, grabbing Sam's ankles and pulling his brother towards him even as he heard Sam cry out in pain. But there was no time to be gentle or to apologize for the rough treatment because Sam aspirating vomit was not a risk Dean was willing to take.

"Almost there, Sam," Dean promised, giving a final tug on his brother's long legs and feeling a wave of relief when Sam cleared the rocky undercut.

Finally, they were both out.

But there was no time for high-fives or hell yeahs.

Because in the next instant, Sam's eyes and mouth – having been closed and clamped shut in an effort to ride out the pain and nausea – simultaneously snapped open as a strangled sound gurgled up from his throat.

Dean immediately reached for his brother, hooking his cold hands under Sam's arms and hauling the kid to a sitting position; Sam's back against Dean's chest as their legs sprawled out in front of them.

"D..." Sam gasped and then leaned forward, sagging in Dean's arms as he gagged.

But again, didn't throw up.

With both arms loosely wrapped around his brother's torso, Dean narrowed his eyes. Because there was no such thing as false alarms with Sam; if Sam said he was going to throw up, he threw up. But this was twice that the kid had tried, and nothing had happened; which, as Dean knew from experience, meant Sam had once again skipped breakfast (how often did he do that now, with no one there to make sure he ate?). And since there had been no time for lunch either, Sam was about to endure bouts of dry heaving for which he did not have the strength, and they did not have the time.

"Ah, Sam," Dean sighed, shaking his head, wanting to be annoyed but only feeling concerned because unconsciousness followed by disorientation, blurred vision, and vomiting – or at least in this case, attempted vomiting – equaled one hell of a concussion.

Dean sighed again as he glanced from left to right, allowing his eyes to adjust to the quickly darkening forest and hoping Owen and Ray were not within earshot. Because no matter how much Dean would welcome the opportunity to dole out his own form of justice to those two dicks, Sam needed his full attention right now.

As if to prove it, Sam tensed in Dean's arms; his body trying to vomit again, causing him to slump further into Dean's lap as his back arched against the forced strain of emptying an empty stomach. Thick saliva, slimy and discolored from bile, hung in syrupy strands from Sam's mouth, hovering over their outstretched legs, actually swaying in Sam's ragged breaths.

Dean wrinkled his nose and swallowed. "Dude. That's nasty," he admonished, but his voice was candidly worried and gentle.

Sam spat, trying to rid his mouth of the bitter taste and milky texture before it triggered another gag response but was too late and heaved again, causing more bile and saliva to coat his chin and dribble down to his shirt.

Without hesitation, Dean carefully wiped his wrist across his brother's swollen, cracked lips – _the things he did for this kid_ – and then rubbed the mess on his own jeans. "Easy."

Sam made a guttural sound – half moan, half mewl – as the fingers of his left hand dug painfully into Dean's leg. He swallowed, taking shallow breaths through his mouth.

Dean could feel his little brother's ribs barely expanding as he continued to hold Sam in his arms; leaning forward as he supported Sam's weight, even as the position caused his own injured side to pull.

Dean winced, biting the inside corner of his mouth, willing himself to suck it up as he heard Sam swallow convulsively and then felt him shudder and gasp. "Deep breaths, Sammy. Stop fighting it."

Sam shook his head erratically – because he wasn't fighting it; he just couldn't _breathe_ – as his eyes squeezed shut, tears streaking his cheeks as pain and exhaustion mingled with confusion and embarrassment. If he hadn't felt so miserable, he would have been even more mortified. And even now, Sam thought he should probably apologize to his brother for having to take care of him like this. He was 18 and well beyond needing his big brother to hold him while he threw up. Plus, people that walked out on their families didn't deserve to be comforted. People that walked out on their families – selfish bastards like himself – deserved to choke on their own bile, surrounded by dark solitude as they slowly suffocated.

_Don't ever come back._

Fresh tears welled in Sam's eyes as he inexplicably remembered their father's harsh words – though he could remember nothing else – and wondered if John would be happy when he got his wish, when Sam died and never came back.

Sam closed his eyes, warm tears silently gliding over his flushed cheeks as he coughed, swallowed, and then coughed again. He opened his mouth to speak but gagged instead – _don't ever come back_ – and clung to Dean as dense saliva once again clogged his throat.

Dean sighed – recognizing the subtle difference between Sam heaving because he was nauseous versus Sam heaving because he was emotionally overwrought – and decided enough was enough. Sam couldn't spare the strength, and they couldn't spare the time; they needed to move.

Carefully, in a move perfected by years of practice, Dean readjusted his grip on his brother and lifted Sam up from his lap, easing his brother back so that the kid rested against him. Dean braced one arm across Sam's chest, supporting his brother's injured right arm, while Dean's other arm slid down to gently press his splayed hand over the kid's stomach.

"Alright, Sammy. Enough, huh? Relax." Dean kept his touch as steady as his voice, rubbing his hand back and forth, back and forth over Sam's quivering abdominal muscles as he stretched his own leg to kick away the slimy mess of bile and spit congealing on the leaves. "Whatever you're thinking about" – as if Dean didn't already know – "let it go for now. We'll deal with it later, okay? Just breathe and relax."

A few moments passed before Sam moaned low, sounding more like a sob, and completely folded against Dean, his face turned toward his big brother, his eyes still closed.

Dean shrugged his shoulder to glance down at his brother and thumbed tears away from Sam's temple as they slipped through his eyelashes. "You're okay."

Or at least, he would be. Dean would make sure of it.

Sam let out a shaky breath; his fingers still gripping the fabric of Dean's jeans as Dean listened to the wind rustle the leaves overhead – but thankfully, not hearing anything else...like approaching footsteps – and continued to move his hand back and forth over his brother's stomach, feeling the tension ease out of Sam's muscles with each pass from left to right.

Dean smiled softly, pleased more than he would ever admit that the combination of his touch and his voice still soothed his brother.

Sam shifted uncomfortably, his breath hitching in way that suggested he was not having trouble breathing from being sick or upset; he was just having trouble breathing.

Like he was having trouble breathing the entire time they were in the cave.

Like the shortness of breath that would indicate broken ribs.

Dean narrowed his eyes at the thought of his concussed little brother sustaining an injury he didn't even remember and then sighed. "Sam?"

Sam didn't verbally respond, but Dean felt his brother's body tense in a way that indicated he was listening.

Dean stilled his movements, his hand lightly resting on Sam's stomach. "Better?"

Sam scrunched his face, seeming to consider the question before nodding weakly.

Dean nodded as well. "Good. Because we need to move. But first..."

Dean's fingers pushed aside the zippered edged of Sam's jacket, curling around the hem of his brother's buttoned shirt as he lifted the fabric, along with the t-shirt underneath. And although it was steadily growing dark and shadowy in the woods, Dean could still see the variegated pattern of bruises in varying shades of violet and indigo that covered the entire left side of Sam's torso.

_Nice._

Dean shook his head as he probed the area with deft fingers, noting the location each time his brother winced.

Sam flinched hard as Dean pressed a particularly dark bruise, his breaths – already coming in short bursts – stuttering to a stop as he continued to lean heavily against Dean.

Dean froze. "Sam?"

Sam remained silent, his face contorting in pain.

"Sammy?"

Sam swallowed. "Hurts," he choked out, the strain in his voice indicating that was an understatement.

"Bet it does," Dean agreed. "Broken ribs usually do."

Sam blinked sluggishly. "Broken...?"

Dean nodded and glanced up the hill, putting two and two together as he remembered finding Sam at the bottom of it a few hours ago, sprawled and unresponsive. "I think you fell," he replied and hoped that his weight on top of Sam underneath the ledge hadn't caused more damage, like a punctured lung or a ruptured spleen or...

Dean shook his head, dismissing the thoughts – because they certainly didn't need to borrow trouble – and looked down at his brother. "You remember falling?"

There was a beat of silence in which Sam stared back with such intensity that Dean thought maybe he did remember, that maybe Sam was starting to remember everything. But then his brother spoke and blew that theory all to hell; because the only thing Sam remembered was the one thing neither of them could forget.

_Don't ever come back._

"Did Dad..." Sam's eyes welled with tears. "...mean it?"

And without further explanation, Dean knew exactly what Sam was asking, knew – as he had already suspected – what had upset the kid to the point of being physically sick a few minutes ago.

"Ah, Sammy..." Dean sighed, lowering Sam's shirt over the kid's bruised flesh and feeling something twist inside his own chest at the candid vulnerability of his brother in that moment; because it was obvious that Sam believed every word John Winchester had said that night.

Sam stared up at him, blood and dirt smeared across his face; unshed tears glistening in his huge hazel eyes as he inhaled shakily. "D-Dean..."

"No, Sam," Dean interrupted before his brother could ask him again. "Dad didn't mean it," he replied honestly, his voice quiet and deep with the certainty of his words.

Because although John Winchester was undoubtedly one hardcore sonuvabitch, he also undeniably loved his sons and wanted them safe; and Dean knew for a fact – even if John had never mentioned it – that their dad had been to California himself at least once over the past few months to check on Sam. And those were not the actions of a man who never wanted to see his son again, who never wanted his youngest to come back.

Sam shifted, his breath catching in his throat as he accidently jarred his injured shoulder.

His thoughts dispersed by Sam's movement and corresponding gasp of pain, Dean glanced down, seeing his brother's eyes squeezed shut as Sam's left hand grasped his right elbow in an attempt to stabilize his aching arm.

"Easy, Sammy," Dean soothed, reaching for the blood-stained collar of his brother's shirt and gently pulling away the fabric to see the wound he knew was there. "How bad were you hit?"

"I should..." Sam coughed "...be asking...you...the same...thing."

Dean paused, his eyes meeting his brother's as the kid continued to rest against him. Leave it to Sam to forget everything that had happened over the past few hours – including his own injuries – and struggle to say even one word...yet recall every detail of Dean's mere scratch and want to launch into a speech about it.

Sam swallowed audibly. "Dean..."

"It's just a graze, Sam. I'm fine."

Sam stared back, looking for signs of deception as he remembered touching Dean's blood-saturated side. "That's a...hell of a...lot...of blood...for...just a...g-graze."

Dean shrugged, feeling Sam's head lift with the motion. "Grazes always bleed like a bitch. I'm fine."

"Dean...you're...not – "

"Shut up, Sam," Dean ordered, but there was no heat to his words. "I don't like the way you're breathing."

Sam glared weakly in response. "And I don't...like the...way...you're...deflecting."

There was a beat of silence as Dean realized the quickest way to resolve this issue was to remind his little brother that, as usual, big brothers were always right. And if Dean said he was fine, then he was fine.

"You're a pain in my ass, you know that?" Dean grumbled, twisting to lift his own shirt and then quickly running his hand over his wound before grasping Sam's hand and guiding him over it as well.

There was indeed a bloody crease across Dean's side – a furrow a quarter-inch deep, if he had to guess – that the bullet had plowed out as it had whipped by him. But the bleeding had stopped – except for a little oozing – and although it was sore as hell, Dean knew he had been lucky.

Dean shook his head, releasing Sam's hand and lowering his own shirt over his side. "Happy now, bitch?"

"Ecstatic...jer – " Sam wheezed. "Jerk."

Dean smiled – because only in the language of Winchester was "jerk" and "bitch" a good thing to be called – but then felt his smile waver as he resumed his careful examination of the ragged hole carved out by the bullet that had entered Sam's shoulder. The collarbone was obviously broken – possibly even shattered and fragmented beneath the skin – and while the wound was no longer bleeding, it was swollen and warm to the touch.

As Dean continued his inspection, he gently felt along Sam's neck, shoulder, and upper back, finding no exit wound; which meant the bullet was still in there, and the risk of infection had just gone up; which would explain the flush of Sam's cheeks evident even in the dark and the heat radiating off his brother as the kid leaned against Dean's chest.

"Dean..." Sam began and then coughed, startled by the bitter tang of copper that filled his mouth.

Dean felt Sam go rigid. "Sam?" He glanced down, frowning at the expression that crossed his brother's face, a mixture of panic and fear. "What?"

"Blood," Sam blurted at the recognition of the taste before coughing again and wiping his lips. "I just..."

"Coughed up blood," Dean finished as he saw the unmistakable stain on Sam's hand.

_Shit._

The possibility of internal injuries – a punctured lung, a ruptured spleen, all of the above – just skyrocketed, and Sam needed a hospital _right fucking now_. But they were in the middle of nowhere with two killers who Dean knew for a fact were coming back to this very spot in half an hour – maybe even sooner – and they needed to move.

Dean's heart hammered in his chest as he opened his mouth to speak, but stopped as Sam suddenly erupted into another bout of coughing. He pitched forward, supported by Dean's arms as he gagged on the blood rushing up his throat and coating the inside of his mouth.

"D..." Sam gasped and then coughed again; tiny red flecks spraying the leaves; pinpricks of crimson then splattering up on their jeans.

Dean watched in horror, murmuring words of comfort – "Easy, easy, easy..." – while his mind screamed words of paralyzing panic – _Fuck, fuck, fuck!_

Because the blood was too red, too bright, too much; all signs that Sam was actively bleeding somewhere inside.

Dean closed his eyes at the realization – willing himself to pull it together – and then opened them as he felt Sam relax in his grip, boneless and entirely too pliant.

"Sam!" Dean called, alarm evident in his voice as he was sure his brother had just passed out again.

But Sam flinched at the sound of his name and then folded against Dean; his head pounding, his chest tight from the excruciating hacking; his throat blistered and raw; his entire body trembling with exhaustion and pulsing with pain.

"We...are _so..._screwed," Sam panted hoarsely, and Dean felt his heart drop because his brother was _so _right.

"It's okay, Sam," Dean replied automatically, his voice surprisingly confident as he tried to remember how long a person could bleed internally before they completely bled out; knowing it would depend on location and other factors that Dean didn't know.

_He didn't know! _

How the hell was he supposed to help Sam if he didn't know?

Sam dug his fingers into Dean's jeans-clad thigh, desperate for strength as his breath continued to tease him with evasion. Each labored breath became critical, one painful inhalation after the next; his throat so raw he thought he would scream from the shredding pain, if the agony in his chest and shoulder and head didn't kill him first.

Sam ducked his head, suddenly too tired to hold it up. "D-Dean..."

"It's okay, Sammy," Dean soothed, wondering how the fuck he was going to make that true. "We're gonna get through this, okay?" Dean cupped his brother's chin and drew Sam's head up. "You hear me?" He swiped his hand under Sam's bangs, over his cheek, down his jaw, and paused on the back of his brother's neck, squeezing gently. "Listen to me, Sammy. You need to breathe like me, okay? Slow breaths. One at a time. In and out." Dean's hand dropped to Sam's chest, lightly resting on the kid's sternum; not wanting to cause further damage but knowing Sam would respond to his touch. "In and out," Dean continued to coach quietly, trying to slow Sam's breathing; to adjust the flow of oxygen by the weight of his hand and the measure of his words. "In and out."

With great effort, Sam lifted his left hand, wrapping it around Dean's like a lifeline; fingers laced as both brothers' hands rested on Sam's chest.

Dean felt his throat tighten with emotion. "It's okay, Sam. You're doing good. In and out..."

Sam felt a lessening of pressure as air flowed into his lungs; his pulse thrumming in his throat, his heart pounding. "Dean..."

"No talking, just breathing," Dean answered, his hand remaining on Sam's chest as his eyes scanned the top of the hill, half expecting Owen and Ray to crest it any second.

Dean sighed.

They needed to _move_.

He needed to get Sam on his feet; figure out which way to go; and haul ass to the Impala.

Because his little brother was not dying on his watch.

_No fucking way._

Dean glanced down at Sam, feeling the kid's grip loosen on his hand. "Sammy?"

Sam blinked sluggishly, his voice barely a whisper. "M'tired."

Dean swallowed the panic that rose at the implications of that slurred statement. "I know," he answered. "But Sammy..." He gently rubbed Sam's uninjured arm, trying to rouse his brother. "I need you to stay awake."

Sam sighed, a weak and breathy sound. "Why?"

Dean laughed wetly, because that was such a Sammy thing to ask. "Because..." His voice choked to a stop. There were so many reasons why Dean needed his brother to stay awake, to stay with him. "Because it's you and me against the world, right? Who's gonna have my back if you're not awake, huh?"

Sam didn't respond.

Dean rubbed his brother's arm a little more vigorously. "Sammy?"

"M'awake," Sam answered, and his tone probably would've been bitchier if he had more strength.

Dean smiled. "That's my boy."

And then there was silence as Dean scanned the trees, deciding they would head north. They had parked the Impala beside the lake, and the lake was north from here. There was no way in hell they would have time to walk around it, like they had when they first hiked into the woods earlier that afternoon, but Dean would figure that out when they got there.

"Sam..."

"Hmm..."

Dean narrowed his eyes. "You with me?"

"Mmhmm."

Dean nodded. That would have to be good enough. "Listen, we've got to get out of here, okay? You need a hospital, kiddo. But we can't get there if we stay here, right?" Dean placed his hand between Sam's shoulders while his other hand pressed against the damp ground, preparing to stand. "On the count of three, I'm going to stand up. And then I'll count again before I lift you up, okay?"

Dean didn't wait for an answer before counting and pushing himself up, slowly rising to his feet as he continued to brace Sam, keeping his brother upright. He paused, touching his side as pain flared at the sudden movement, but immediately refocused as he felt Sam begin to list.

"Whoa, Sammy," Dean called, wincing as he leaned over to hook his hands under his brother's arms. "Okay, on the count of three..."

And in the next instant, Sam was on his feet; an explosion of pain in his head competing with increased pressure in his chest and an intense fiery tingling in his right arm. His vision wavered as he was turned around to face his brother. He once again felt the urge to throw up but was distantly aware of his head lolling forward instead, resting on Dean's shoulder as Dean cupped the back of his neck, murmuring...something.

"Sammy? You still with me?"

There was a beat of silence.

"Sammy?"

Sam nodded, or at least he tried.

Dean felt his brother's head move on his shoulder and took it as the answer he knew it was meant to be. "Alright. Good boy, Sammy," Dean praised as he supported Sam; one hand grasping his brother's left wrist as he stretched the kid's arm across his shoulder and the other hand firmly at Sam's waist, holding him steady. "Here we go. Stay with me, okay? Stay awake and try to move your feet."

Sam swallowed, feeling shaky and strangely detached. "'Kay."

"Okay," Dean agreed; and as they began to shuffle forward, that's when he heard it – familiar voices floating down the hill.

Dean tightened his grip around Sam and glanced over his shoulder, hearing the unmistakable voices of Owen and Ray become clearer as the bouncing beams of flashlights sliced through the darkness; still a good distance away but heading straight for them.

_**TBC**_


	5. Chapter 5

"These fuckers are heavy as hell," Ray complained, his strained voice giving credence to his words.

"No shit," Owen retorted laconically, his left hand awkwardly gripping the flashlight as he readjusted the body he carried over his left shoulder; his right hand cramping from its grip on the cinderblock. "After we take them down this hill, we'll tie on the blocks before dropping them in the lake."

"I know," Ray snapped, annoyance in his voice. "I'm not a fucking newbie."

"Yeah, well you sure as hell acted like one last time, knocking me in the fucking water."

"Dude, I said I was sorry." Ray's chuckle contradicted his words. "What more do you fucking want?"

"I want you to keep your fucking head in the game!"

Owen's yell drifted effortlessly down the hill. And then they were silent; the only sounds made by their boots rustling the leaves as they eased down the hill, the beams of their flashlights leading the way.

"Shit." Dean's curse came out as a harsh whisper, and Sam felt his brother's grip tense around his wrist as he said it. "Shit, shit, shit!"

The borderline panic in Dean's voice, the urgency of his movements caused Sam's heart to slam in his chest, once again shortening his breaths even if he had no idea what was happening, why they had stopped moving forward and were now standing still. "Wha..."

But that was as far as he got; his thoughts seeming to slip away as Sam felt his knees threatening to buckle.

Dean heard his brother's breathy voice an instant before he felt Sam sag heavier against him. "Hey, hey, hey..."

Sam blinked but made no other response.

Dean tightened his grip on his brother and listened as Owen and Ray continued down the hill, three thoughts buzzing through his head in a constant loop.

_Get Sam out._

_Take care of Sam._

_Take those assholes out of this equation, so you can take care of Sam._

_Get Sam out…_

Dean nodded, agreeing with the voice in his head; the voice that always sounded like John Winchester; the voice that was rarely wrong.

While killing humans was not something their father encouraged, it was also something that was not entirely off limits. Self-defense was self-defense, whether it was against the supernatural or not. Protecting yourself, protecting your family; that was what mattered, that was the gospel John Winchester preached.

Family always came first; period.

And most important...

_Watch out for Sammy._

Beside him, Sam made a pained sound, and Dean blinked, glancing at his brother just as the kid's eyes squeezed shut.

"Sammy," Dean whispered, eyes sweeping the moon-lit forest as he tried to maneuver his brother without jarring Sam's wounded shoulder or broken ribs; remembering the bullet-torn flesh, the bruises on the kid's thin chest, and the coughed-up blood. "Sam..."

Sam cracked his eyes to mere slits. "Hmm..."

Dean felt his own chest tighten, because his brother was slipping away by the second. "I gotta take care of something, so I'm gonna sit you down for a minute. But you gotta stay awake, okay?"

Sam swallowed audibly; then resumed his wheezing breaths. "'Kay."

Dean nodded, glancing over his shoulder at the shafts of light that continued down the hill. Adrenaline-fueled urgency vibrated throughout his body as Dean turned back to Sam. But the abrupt movement caused Dean's injured side to explode in pain, knocking him off balance and momentarily causing his grip on Sam to loosen.

And a moment was all it took for Sam to completely crumple – like a marionette whose strings had been released – and he fell backwards even as Dean frantically grabbed for him. As he landed, Sam made a sound – half yell, half moan – and then was motionless in the leaves, lungs and body stunned as what little breath he had quickly retreated.

The beams of light froze midway down the hill.

"What the fuck was that?" Ray asked, and Dean could hear movement that sounded like something heavy being lowered to the ground; their respective loads, no doubt, as Owen and Ray reached for their guns.

"Sounded like it came from up ahead," Owen answered, the unmistakable click of a gun being cocked following his words.

Swallowing a string of curses, Dean leaned down, yanking up the leg of his jeans as he snatched the Velcro of his ankle holster and grasped his Taurus. Lowering the denim back over his boot, Dean reached to lift Sam but stopped when the noise Sam had made seconds before came again.

But not from Sam.

It was the exact sound – half yell, half moan – but it was further away, up the hill and to the right.

Squatting next to Sam – soothing hand lightly resting on his little brother's heaving chest – Dean tilted his head, listening.

And judging from the silence, Owen and Ray were doing the same.

In the next second, the sound came again, only closer and to the left.

"What the fuck?" Ray blurted, his tone clearly conveying his confusion.

Owen didn't have time to answer before the sound came twice again, moving back and to the right.

"What the fuck moves that fast?" Ray demanded; his tone now more alarmed than confused.

"How the fuck do I know?" Owen snapped, and Dean could hear them turning in circles, could see their flashlight beams swirling around as they attempted to track the sound that echoed through the forest again, unnerving in its speed and how human it sounded.

Which meant...

_Wendigo._

Dean sighed at the thought. "Are you fucking kidding me?" he hissed, because even though that was what had originally led him and Sam out there, Dean was well beyond wanting to hunt. And besides that, even if there had been time and desire, Dean's gun was useless. In their experience, only fire killed a Wendigo, and the lighter in Dean's pocket wasn't going to do the trick.

_Fan...fucking...tastic._

Sam shifted beneath Dean's hand, drawing Dean's attention back to his brother. "Wendigo," he reported quietly, knowing Sam had been listening, and was surprised when the kid weakly shook his head.

"No," Sam responded.

The sound came again, followed by more of Ray's swearing.

Dean narrowed his eyes. "No, what?"

"No...Wen...digo." Sam coughed. "O..." He coughed once more, turning his head to the side as fresh blood trickled from his mouth.

Dean clenched his jaw against a new swell of panic even as he gently rubbed his brother's chest while wiping the kid's bloody, swollen lips. "Easy, huh?"

Sam nodded and then swallowed before trying again. "O...we...go."

And even though Sam was disoriented, barely conscious, and _fucking bleeding out_, Dean instantly knew his little brother was right – Owego...it seemed so obvious now – and felt pride swell in his chest. "Geek," he whispered affectionately, seeing a smile flicker over Sam's battered face at the recognized praise.

There was a beat of silence before the sound came again; further confirming that Sam was right.

An Owego – a lesser known cousin of the Wendigo – was a solitary creature that preferred to hunt alone and possessed the same tall, lanky frame as its distant relative; the same yellowed fangs and razor-sharp claws; the same enhanced strength and mind-blowing speed. But those were the only shared characteristics.

Unlike the Wendigo, the Owego could only mimic human sounds, not voices. And it was nocturnal, which was why there had been no signs of it until now. Plus, while the Wendigo was a near-perfect hunter, using its stealth to stalk its prey, only to haul it back to the cave alive to feed off for long periods, the Owego preferred to feed off prey that was already injured or even dead; which was probably why it was among them now – not because it was hunting them as much as because it wanted its free meal back, the bodies that Owen and Ray were carrying.

And, if Dean was honest with himself, the Owego probably sensed the severity of Sam's injuries; had identified potential weakness and had come in search of easy pickings.

"You're..." Sam's face scrunched against the pain, the labored breaths. "..in-injured...too," he reminded.

Dean rolled his eyes. "Bitch, please. I told you I'm fine," he quietly responded, even as he felt the corner of his mouth twitch in amused affection; never ceasing to be amazed that his kid brother could follow his train of thought so accurately; that Sam could be gravely injured himself and yet still be focused on Dean's minor graze.

"So...what's...the plan?" Sam asked; his question muffled as the sound – half yell, half moan – came again, bouncing off the trees but seeming to originate between their location and that of Owen and Ray.

Which meant the Owego was no longer working the perimeter but had moved closer for a more focused assessment of which pair was first, Sam and Dean or Owen and Ray.

Which meant shit was about to get real.

Dean gently patted Sam's chest – _don't worry...I got this_ – and stood, tightening his grip on his gun. Bullets would do nothing to the Owego; only water, which melted the creature on contact, would have any effect. But firing a shot would undoubtedly get a reaction from Owen and Ray and would stop them from turning in circles long enough for Dean to get a better aim on his targets.

In one swift motion, Dean lifted his arm and fired in the direction of the flashlight beams 100 yards ahead, and then chuckled at the immediate swearing.

_Dumbasses._

The bullet had come nowhere close to Owen and Ray – only capable of traveling 20 to 30 yards at best; only meant to attract attention, not cause harm – and yet they were still freaking out.

At least Ray was.

"Fuck, man! Now it's fucking firing at us!" Ray yelled, his voice at least an octave higher from fear and panic. "What the fuck are we gonna do?"

"Will you chill the fuck out?" Owen snapped, shining his flashlight into Ray's face. "Jesus! You're worse than a fucking girl."

There was a beat of silence, and Dean imagined Ray making a conscious effort to get his shit in one bag. And since the Owego had stopped its imitation of Sam's sound, Dean assumed it was listening, too; was as patient as it was smart and was undoubtedly waiting them out.

"Do you think it's one of them?" Ray asked; his voice more controlled as he squinted in the bright light Owen continued to shine in his face.

Dean glanced down at his brother, feeling a wave of satisfaction in knowing Ray was referring to him and Sam.

"Who else could it fucking be, dumbass?" Owen responded.

"But how the fuck are they moving that fast?" Ray pressed.

"Fuck, if I know," Owen replied, lowering his flashlight and swinging its beam in front of him. The light scattered the darkness in the direction from which the gunshot had come, but Owen could see nothing. "Hey!" he yelled in the same direction, his voice echoing through the woods.

Continuing to stand beside Sam, Dean arched an eyebrow. _Yeah, asshole?_

But the Owego must have thought Owen was talking to it, as the half yell, half moan came again; closer this time to Owen and Ray than to Sam and Dean. And that was perfect, because Owen and Ray didn't deserve to die quick and easy; Dean wanted them to suffer even worse than Sam already had.

Dean glanced down at his brother as he felt Sam weakly grasp the cuff of his jeans. "S'okay, Sammy," he quietly assured before the Owego made its sound once more.

"Okay. Enough of this fucking bullshit, this game or whatever the fuck it is you think you're playing!" Owen ranted, moving down the hill as his flashlight cut through the darkness.

The now familiar sound began again, only to be interrupted by a guttural, thoroughly pissed yell from Owen, followed by crazed gunfire.

One, two, three shots; all fueled by rage and none having any aim.

Dean crouched as the bullets ricocheted off tree trunks – closer to the ground, but more importantly, closer to Sam – and smirked, for it seemed Owen suffered from what John Winchester referred to as "firearm impotence"; that is, unable to get it up, to perform under pressure, to aim when emotions ran high. No wonder Owen killed all of his victims at point-blank range; he couldn't shoot worth shit.

But Dean was a fucking sniper. Having been trained by an ex-Marine who had been awarded an Expert Rifle Badge, to say that Dean knew his way around firearms was an understatement. John favored sensory deprivation target practice, often blindfolding his sons or making them wear earplugs – or sometimes both – to block cues from sight and sound; forcing his boys to learn to aim, shoot, and hit their mark every time on instinct; to just _know_.

And as he remained crouched beside his barely conscious kid brother, watching the beams of light come closer – and thus meaning that Owen and Ray were coming closer – Dean knew exactly where to aim to take down his opponents. Because Owen was around 6' and Ray was a slightly shorter 5'8" – and since they were both undoubtedly holding their flashlights level with their guns as they approached – Dean would have to aim...

_There._

Dean nodded, visually locking in the mark on each man and held his position; one knee now resting on the ground, while the other served as a prop to his elbow, steadying his aim as he closed one eye to better focus.

Beside him, Sam shifted, rustling the leaves as he continued to lie on his back, and then whimpered at the pain the motion must have caused.

"Shhh..." Dean soothed automatically, in tune with his brother even as his attention never wavered from the lights heading toward them at a steady pace.

The Owego made another sound – this time mimicking Owen's yell from seconds before – and was instantly answered by gunfire from Owen and Ray.

To the far left of Dean and Sam, the literal shots in the dark bit into the ground, piercing leaves before lodging in the dirt. Dean felt Sam flinch, his brother's fingers twitching as the kid continued to grasp the hem of Dean's jeans, and Dean decided enough was enough; he was seconds away from setting his plan into action.

Step One – wound Owen and Ray such that neither could run nor defend themselves.

_In five...four...three...two..._

Dean fired two shots in quick succession, sadistically pleased at the sharp cry of shock and pain as he hit his first mark – Owen's kneecaps.

"Fuuuuuck!" Owen screamed as he went down, landing hard in the dirt; barely registering what had happened before two more shots rang out, effectively disarming him of his gun and his flashlight.

Unable to formulate speech beyond the all-consuming pain, Owen writhed in the leaves, moaning in agony as he realized he had been shot in both knees and both hands.

The realization had scarcely crossed Owen's mind before two more shots were fired, and Ray landed beside him, swearing and screaming, before another two bullets also rendered Ray's hands useless.

Having only one bullet left in the magazine, Dean lowered his gun and released a slow breath as he surveyed his successful execution of step one. Both Owen and Ray were indeed down, immobile and defenseless. And although Sam's injuries still surpassed theirs in severity, the youngest Winchester would most likely be forgotten by the Owego – along with the dead bodies of Frank and Jake and whoever those other two were – in favor of the two new noisy additions to the buffet.

Because much like sharks were usually attracted by blood and thrashing, the same could be said for Owegos, who were often too lazy to actually hunt but still enjoyed the thrill of the kill; especially when its prey was already down and making itself so plainly known.

The flashlights had fallen at such an angle that Dean could see Owen and Ray as they writhed in their misery, screaming and swearing and suffering as Dean had wanted. And on some level, Dean knew he should probably feel guilty about not saving them from a supernatural creature – as was his job – but instead wounding them with the intention of using them as bait. But he didn't. Because Dean's job as a big brother, as protector of Sam had always come first; would always come before his job as a hunter. And besides, Owen and Ray were unworthy of being saved; they deserved exactly what was coming to them.

Dean blinked from his thoughts as the crunch of snapping twigs crackled through the night air, heralding the Owego's approach before the flashlights went dark, crushed by a creature that was nocturnal and hated light of any kind.

Dean held his breath, glancing down to check on Sam before once again directing his attention forward; knowing step two of his plan – the Owego leaving him and Sam the hell alone while it devoured Owen and Ray – was about to be executed.

In the next instant, there were simultaneous screams of terror – the kind of unimaginable terror of being eaten alive, especially by a creature you didn't even know existed – and Dean knew it was time to move.

_**TBC...tomorrow**_


	6. Chapter 6

Dean lifted his shirt, wincing when pain flared in his side as he reached behind himself, tucking his Taurus into the waist of his jeans before reaching for Sam.

Not wanting to risk words, Dean gently placed one finger across his brother's lips – _be quiet_ – and then lifted Sam to his feet, steadying the kid as he swayed from the abrupt change in position.

Sam seemed oblivious to the quickly weakening shrieks of Owen and Ray; instead clenching his teeth against the pain that overwhelmed his body, refusing to make a sound. Sam rested his forehead on Dean's shoulder as he panted through what Dean suspected was the urge to either hurl or pass out...or maybe both.

Dean held still, rubbing his brother's back as he allowed Sam a few seconds to pull himself together, listening as Owen and Ray were suddenly quiet; their screams replaced by the Owego's chewing and smacking and bone sucking.

Knowing they didn't have much time before the Owego would be finished with its appetizer and refocus on them for its entrée, Dean shrugged his shoulder; a silent indication to Sam that his break was over. Ready or not, they needed to haul ass.

Sam swallowed and nodded, weakly pushing against Dean in an attempt to straighten but only sagged from the effort; a small, pitiful-sounding grunt escaping his lips as he folded against his brother.

Dean frowned. Because as signs went, this was not good; in fact, it was really fucking bad. They had a lot of ground to cover before they were back to the Impala, and Sam was barely conscious; could hardly stand even with Dean supporting most of his weight.

Sighing, Dean grasped the wrist of Sam's uninjured arm and drew it across his own shoulders, holding it there as he wrapped his other arm around Sam's waist, mindful of his brother's injuries. At 18, Sam was still just a skinny kid. And if absolutely necessary, Dean could carry him. But that would slow them down even more; so for now, they would make do like this.

Dean squeezed Sam's wrist – _we're about to move_ – and then paused when he heard the same grunt that his brother had made a few seconds before.

Only, the sound hadn't come from Sam.

Dean felt his heart drop, not needing to look behind them to know they had company; to know that the diversion – the provided snack of Owen and Ray – had been devoured; and now the Owego was focused on them.

"Shit," Dean hissed, tightening his grip on Sam; half dragging, half carrying his brother as they set off in the opposite direction from which the sound had come.

The grunt echoed through the woods, but the Owego was moving slower now that it had fed; another perk of providing Owen and Ray as a snack.

The sound came once more, but Dean barely heard it over the adrenaline humming through his body; over his heart hammering in his chest and the blood rushing in his ears as he tried to cover as much ground as possible while keeping a firm hold on Sam and formulating a Plan B to step three – their escape. The Owego had eaten Owen and Ray faster than Dean had planned – the gluttonous bastard – and now he needed to fucking _think._

Dean was unsure how far they had gone or how long they had been running – distance and time often blurring when being chased – but in the next instant, his answer appeared on the horizon.

The quiet surface of the lake was looming before them; shining like dull, dark pewter in the moonlight. And beyond that, on the opposite shore, waiting patiently for her boys was home sweet home herself, the Impala.

Dean felt a wave of relief – as he always did when his brother was by his side and his best girl was in sight – and readjusted his grip on Sam as they stopped at the shoreline. He stared out at the water before glancing back into the timber – where the Owego's approach was growing ever louder, ever closer – and then Dean smiled, because Owegos melted much like Oz's Wicked Witch when faced with water.

_Only..._

Dean's smile faltered, staring down the shoreline as it stretched away from them on both sides; knowing they would never make it around in time; realizing with dread what they would have to do. They were going to freeze their asses off, but there was literally no other choice.

"Ah, shit," Dean sighed before turning his attention to his brother. "Sam," he called as he carefully lowered the kid to the rocky shore; unlacing and tugging at Sam's boots, then his socks, before removing his own, along with his ankle holster. "Sammy..."

Sam blinked, seemingly confused as to why Dean was suddenly undressing him but made no verbal response.

Dean yanked off his leather jacket, throwing it behind him as he reached for Sam. "We're gonna have to swim, kiddo," Dean explained to his brother as he gently maneuvered Sam's injured arm from his jacket, eliciting a gasp of pain as he did so. "Sorry, sorry, sorry..." Dean apologized, slipping off the other sleeve and tossing Sam's jacket to join his behind them. "Sammy..." Dean called again, ignoring the pain in his side as he stood; the small pebbles cold and hard against his bare feet. "You hear me?" he asked, sliding his hands under his brother's arms and lifting the kid up, bracing himself as Sam immediately pitched forward. "Hey..."

Sam wheezed; swallowed; then wheezed again. "C-can't..."

"Yes, you can," Dean instantly responded, sounding a little more like John Winchester than he would have liked.

There was a beat of silence – the Owego strangely quiet for the past few minutes – and Dean sighed, softening as Sam's fingers weakly bunched the fabric of his shirt, seeking strength and reassurance.

"Can't..." Sam whispered again, and Dean knew Sam was right.

"I'm gonna help you," Dean promised, feeling a fresh wave of determination, followed by a surge of protectiveness. "You hear me? We're gonna do this together." Without waiting for an answer, Dean wrapped his arm around Sam, steadying the kid when he wobbled on the rocky shore. "Easy. Almost there," he coached.

And they were.

They were two steps from the water, mere inches from the gently lapping edge, when the Owego appeared out of fucking nowhere.

Startled – and thoroughly pissed for allowing himself to be startled – Dean shoved Sam behind him on instinct – keeping one hand bunched in the kid's shirt, vaguely aware of his brother's sharp gasp at the sudden, harsh movement – and then viciously kicked, splashing water in the Owego's direction.

The creature made a sound all its own – a high-pitched hiss of outrage as the water sizzled on its skin – and then retreated; was back at the edge of the woods before Dean could blink.

"Fuck!" Dean blurted – because seriously, that scared the fucking _shit_ out of him – and then immediately maneuvered Sam back to his side. "You okay?" he asked, pausing only long enough to sweep Sam's bangs from his eyes, to make sure his brother was still conscious.

Sam's face was pinched with pain, his eyes mere slits as he gazed back at Dean, but it was good enough; it would have to be.

"Okay, here we go," Dean warned, and in the next instant, he was pushing Sam into the water; quickly wading out into the icy lake, side by side.

The water was so cold it hurt, and by the time it reached their waists, they were both shivering violently.

Sam gasped as they sank deeper in the frigid water.

"Yeah," Dean agreed, hardly able to force the word up out of his throat as he made a concentrated effort to keep a tightened grip on Sam's shivering form while also treading water; kicking furiously beneath the surface as he tried to compensate for having only one free arm and belatedly thinking that this idea really sucked.

But it was the only option they had, and Dean mentally shook himself, striking out for the dark lines of the opposite shore; a goal which suddenly seemed impossibly far away.

Behind them, back at the timber line, Dean could hear the muted cries of the Owego, and he wondered how much of the water had hit its mark when he had splashed it. Dean hoped the Owego was injured enough that it would not be able to move at its usual speed and would not be waiting for them on the opposite shore when they arrived.

Or more realistically, based on how Dean felt at the moment, _if_ they arrived. Because holy shit...he had forgotten how tiring swimming could be, especially when doing so with only one arm. And even worse, the water was _fucking freezing._

Dean clenched his jaw in an effort to stop his teeth from chattering and glanced at his brother, seeing that Sam's eyes were closed. "H-hey," Dean called, panting from exertion as he continued to swim for both of them.

His brother's reaction didn't happen as quickly as Dean would have liked, but after a few seconds, Sam's eyes fluttered, blinking owlishly.

"That's better," Dean praised, one arm holding onto Sam, wrapped around the kid's chest, while the other continued to pull them through the water. "Stay awake."

Sam merely blinked; his body completely lax against Dean, and Dean was thankful for the seemingly magical weightlessness the water provided.

There was silence; the Owego finally quiet, and the only sound now coming from Dean's right arm as it swept through the lake's surface.

The repetitive strokes paired with the unmistakable sound of motion in water produced a hypnotizing effect, and Dean blinked rapidly, widening his eyes against the lulling sensation; willing himself to stay alert; to battle against the cold and exhaustion that threatened to literally take them under.

Despite his efforts, Dean could feel his grip loosening on Sam – muscles cramped and fatigued from the strain of maintaining one position – and attempted to readjust his hold on his brother at the exact moment Sam shivered, jerking out of Dean's grasp and disappearing beneath the lake's surface.

Momentarily stunned – horrified by the reality of what just happened – Dean stared in speechless shock and then dove forward into the water; the frigid temperature instantly taking his breath away. Dean floundered and sank before finally forcing his limbs to move, hard kicks thrusting him back to the surface.

Frantic, Dean sucked in air and looked around for Sam just as his brother's head broke the surface a few yards away; the kid's uninjured arm weakly pawing at the water as he gasped for breath.

"Sam!" Dean yelled and then watched as his brother's head slipped back underwater.

Dean made a guttural sound of panic and frustration, swimming to where he had seen Sam disappear and then dove again. Once under, Dean could see nothing but inky blackness and felt his heart slam in his chest. He came back up and cried out his brother's name again; spinning around as he wiped away the water streaming over his eyes.

Suddenly Sam's head broke the surface of the lake, and Dean immediately reached for him, grasping wildly for his brother but missing entirely as Sam went down once more.

Dean dove after him; his hand reaching, reaching, _reaching..._and then finally brushing against what had to be Sam's hair. Dean clenched his fist, feeling the wet locks twining around his fingers, and then jerked upwards with all his strength, simultaneously kicking hard for the surface.

Sam came coughing and gasping into his arms, and Dean held on to him with a vise-like grip. "I've got you," Dean panted, his heart hammering in his chest – because _Jesus_...that was too fucking close. "Just hold on. I've got you, Sammy."

"D...D-D'n," Sam choked out, his teeth chattering so hard that Dean could barely make out the word. "N...n-no..."

Whatever that meant.

Dean didn't have time to figure it out and didn't bother answering as he wrapped one arm around Sam and struck out through the water with the other. He swam on; time losing all meaning as Dean thought of nothing other than telling himself to swim..swim..._swim_.

Several times Dean went under, choking and sputtering when he managed to fight his way back up to the surface. Feeling the effects of exhaustion and exposure, it was as though his entire body had forgotten how to do things on its own; his legs needing constant reminders to keep kicking; his right arm to keep swimming; his lungs to keep pulling in air. The only part of him that didn't need to be told what to do was his left arm; it curved around his brother's body with a fierceness that made his bicep bunch and cramp. But it didn't matter; there was no way in hell Dean was letting go of Sam again.

Sam had not said another word, and Dean had glanced at him once – unnerved by the waxy paleness of his brother's face in the moonlight, his blue-hued lips – and then refused to allow himself to look again. Dean kept kicking and kept paddling with his right arm over and over; keeping his mind blank and his eyes fixed on the black water in front of him, on the edge of the shore beyond.

When his bare foot finally brushed against gravel, Dean was so exhausted that it didn't register. He swam until he was able to crawl out, dragging Sam alongside him. Dean pulled his brother from the water with his last bit of strength; settling Sam on his back before collapsing beside him facedown, trembling from fatigue as a swirl of thoughts descended.

The Owego's cries had long since ceased, but Dean had no idea where it had gone. He couldn't hear it any longer, but it was unlikely the creature would have given up so easily. So, where was it? Back on the other shoreline, nursing its wounds from the splashed water; maybe even dead by now? Hidden in wait for them on this shoreline? Or had it realized the Winchester brothers were not to be fucked with and had retreated back to whatever cave it had crawled from?

Dean swallowed and shook his head, feeling the small pebbles grind into his cheek as he did so. He couldn't think about any of that now; he had more immediate problems as indicated by the silence that came from Sam's direction.

Willing himself to move, Dean slowly crawled toward his brother. "Sam?"

Dean didn't expect a response, but as he drew closer he saw something else he didn't expect – Sam was conscious, eyes open and blinking, yet he wasn't breathing. There was no rise and fall of his chest; no coughing or desperate gasping. Sam's face contorted in pain and panic; his mouth was open, but he was not drawing air.

Swallowing down his own panic, Dean's eyes swept Sam's body, visually triaging his brother, cataloging the kid's known injuries as he searched for the cause of this latest crisis. Concussion, gunshot wound, fractured collarbone, battered face, bruised chest, probable internal bleeding, broken ribs...

Dean's eyes drifted back to Sam's chest – his _hyper-expanded _chest – and gently placed his hands on either side of his brother's torso, remembering how the kid had struggled for air since their time in the cave; how Sam had coughed and gasped and mentioned the pressure in his chest multiple times; how Sam's speech had been choppy and breathy.

Dean frowned as his hands remained still on Sam's chest, when they should have been rising and falling as his brother breathed. Dean remembered how he had worried earlier about how much further damage he might have done to Sam while lying on top of him in the cave and knew that all of the activity they had done since then had only made the original injury worse, had most likely caused the broken ribs to puncture Sam's lung and had led to this – a pneumothorax.

"Okay..." Dean sighed, willing himself to stay calm – because he knew what to do, he just had to do it – and angled himself so that he was in Sam's line of vision. "Sammy..." he called, and waited for Sam's sluggish gaze to find him. "Collapsed lung, okay?" Dean reported. "No big deal. I'm gonna fix it for now, and then we'll head to the hospital. Just hang tight..."

Sam's nod was weak and uncoordinated as his eyes began to roll back.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa...hey!" Dean brushed his brother's bangs away, trying to maintain eye contact. "Sammy!"

But Sam was out.

"Ah, shit," Dean hissed; his panic exploding into action as he stood, digging in the front pocket of his jeans for his keys; his fingers cold and clumsy and his legs the same as he jogged the few steps to the Impala, thankful she was close.

Unlocking the trunk, Dean lifted the lid; one hand grabbing the first aid kit and flashlight while the other snagged the less often used field surgery kit they had gotten from a military surplus store. Tucking the flashlight under his arm while holding the kits against his chest with the same arm, Dean yanked open the passenger side door, ducking in long enough to snatch a straw from the glove compartment.

Supplies in hand, Dean jogged back to Sam, hoping – maybe even praying – that this was going to work; that the one time their father had made him practice this procedure on the leftover meat suit of an exorcised demon was enough.

Because he had to get this right; there would be no do-overs. There was no way in hell Sam was going to leave him. Not again. Not here, not now, and sure as hell not like this.

Wordlessly, Dean dropped to his knees, a twinge of pain flaring in his side from the jarring motion, and felt the seep of moisture from the ground and the small pebbles on the shoreline dig into his denim-clad flesh. Clicking on the flashlight, Dean placed it between his shoulder and jaw, angling it to shine on Sam and holding it in that position with his chin. Dean grasped the neckline of Sam's shirt with both hands and then pulled in opposite directions, jaggedly ripping the fabric down the center, exposing his brother's thin chest. Dean scanned Sam's torso, eyes focusing on the left side; the myriad of bruises vivid against the pale, goose bumped skin.

_Yahtzee._

Without looking, Dean flung back the top of the first aid kit, tearing open a single-use alcohol wipe and then swiping it over Sam's flesh. Tossing the wipe back into the kit, Dean glanced to the side, chin still resting on the flashlight, as he unwrapped the straw – no bigger than a coffee stirrer – and then lightly held it between his teeth, careful not to crush it. Dean didn't even notice the spasm of pain from his own injury as he reached for the surgical kit and unzipped it, extracting the syringe with the needle attached – the 14 gauge, 3.25 inch needle, to be exact.

"A 3.25 inch needle will get through the chest wall in 99% of individuals," their dad had read to him from a manual as they had practiced that day several years ago, and Dean hoped that Sam wasn't in the 1% minority.

Dean sighed and steadied the light as it shone on Sam; one hand holding the syringe while the other hovered over Sam's chest, moving three finger widths below the middle of his brother's collarbone to the second intercostal space in the midclavicular line.

"During needle decompression, it is important to remember to enter the chest wall at a 90 degree angle. Entering above the third rib avoids the artery and vein on the bottom of the second rib and also decreases the risk of puncturing the patient's heart," John had continued to read that day, and Dean remembered it seeming so easy when he had followed those directions under his father's guidance.

But this wasn't a vacated body; this was _Sam_.

Dean swallowed, squinting to better focus as he inserted the needle into Sam's chest at a perfect 90 degree angle – straight down, needle disappearing as it glided through his brother's flesh – and then exhaling himself when he heard the hiss of air as it escaped, indicating he had successfully penetrated the pleural space.

Feeling a wave of relief as he watched Sam's chest deflate, Dean removed the needle, dropping it into the open surgical kit, and then snatched the straw from his mouth, carefully inserting it into the hole he had just created in Sam's chest; allowing his hand to hover over the exposed opening of the straw, feeling the small puffs of air.

Holding the straw steady with one hand, Dean groped around the kit for surgical tape with his other hand. As he snagged the roll and tore off a piece with his teeth, his eyes scanned their surroundings – no sign of the Owego – and then directed his attention back to Sam, securing the straw in place, before once again placing his hands on either side of the kid's torso, feeling shallow breaths.

Seeing the thin red piece of plastic sticking out of his brother's chest was surreal, and for a few seconds, Dean just stared, immensely relieved and grateful to see Sam breathing. But as he continued to stare, Dean realized Sam was shivering – as he was – and knew he needed to get off his ass and get them dry before hypothermia contributed to their problems.

With a sigh, Dean grasped the flashlight – rolling his shoulders against the cramp that had settled in his neck from holding it with his chin – and crawled to the other side of his brother, not wanting to bump the straw when he lifted Sam. Dean slipped one arm – the one holding the flashlight – under the kid's knees and then angled his other arm so that Sam's head rested in the crook of his elbow while he removed the remnants of his brother's shirt.

Taking a deep breath – steeling himself against the fatigue, against the pain he knew would flare in his side – Dean pushed to his feet, staggering a few steps before gaining his balance and crossing to the Impala, thankful he had left the passenger door open.

Keeping his eye on the straw – terrified of jarring it loose – Dean maneuvered Sam headfirst into the Impala, stretching his brother across the bench seat so that the kid's head would be resting in Dean's lap in a few minutes when he climbed behind the wheel. Half in the car himself, Dean leaned over Sam to crank the engine, then blasted the heat before reaching for the kid's duffle in the backseat; grabbing a pair of sweatpants from his bag and then a towel from the stash they always kept in the rear foot well.

Turning back to Sam, Dean gave a cursory pass over his brother's hair before quickly but carefully drying the kid's face and neck; moving to Sam's arms and chest – lingering around the straw, double-checking the tape, feeling the air – and then snagged the sweatpants from the seat as he backed himself out of the Impala.

Draping the damp towel over his shoulder, Dean matter-of-factly removed his brother's jeans and boxers; dropping the sodden clothes to the ground as he dried Sam's legs and then slipped the sweatpants up and over his brother's hips.

Dean tossed the towel and Sam's saturated clothes in the front foot well before crossing to the trunk, exchanging the flashlight for a gray wool blanket – another military surplus bargain. Dean returned to the passenger side – _Sam's side, always Sam's side_ – and once again leaned over his brother, tucking the blanket around Sam; left edge carefully folded back to accommodate the straw; bottom edge wrapped over Sam's bent knees and around the kid's frozen feet.

Standing beside the Impala, Dean paused – shivering in his own wet clothing as he visually assessed Sam's condition – and eased the passenger door shut, not wanting to shake the car and thus shake Sam; paranoid as hell that the straw sticking out of his brother's chest was going to somehow jar loose.

Satisfied that Sam was relatively stable, Dean turned – eyes once again scanning his surroundings – and jogged the few steps to the shoreline. As he collected the first aid and surgical kits, Dean's gaze drifted out over the water, squinting to see the other shoreline; ears straining to hear something, anything.

But it was quiet, as though nothing had ever happened.

Dean sighed, pushing down a mixture of emotions he would deal with later – or not – and then returned to the Impala, glancing in on Sam before tossing the kits in the trunk and pulling out a fresh towel and his own duffle.

In less than two minutes, Dean had dried off, changed clothes, secured the trunk, and was opening the driver's side door to a wave of welcoming heat.

"Alright, Sammy," Dean said conversationally as he carefully lifted his brother's head and slid in behind the wheel, resituating Sam in his lap before pulling the door shut. "How you doin', huh?" he asked, reaching to check the straw but pausing when Sam's eyes opened.

There was a beat of silence; nothing but the rumble of the engine and the whoosh of heated air rushing from the vents.

"Sam?"

Sam blinked; his gaze sluggishly roaming the Impala's interior before finally finding Dean; absently wondering why Dean was upside down...or maybe _he_ was upside down?

Sam allowed his gaze to roam once more, further taking in his surroundings and realized he was wrapped in a blanket, lying in the front seat of the Impala; a straw sticking out of his bare chest and his head in Dean's lap.

Oh.

_Oh..._

Sam suddenly remembered Dean promising to fix something – to fix _him_ – and apparently, Dean did. Like always.

Sam sighed breathily and then refocused on his brother.

Dean smiled, relief flooding his chest. "Good to see you awake, lazy ass," he commented good-naturedly, snarky humor having always been a reliable cover for worry. "Hey..." he called as Sam's gaze began to wander. Dean loosened strands of damp hair from Sam's eyelashes and then swept back the kid's bangs, trying to gauge his brother's level of orientation. "You with me, or are the lights just on?"

There was another beat of silence, as though Sam was trying to decide.

"Sam..." Dean called, and then held his breath.

Sam swallowed. "W-with you," he responded quietly, feeling an unexplainable peace. Because even though Sam knew he was severely injured, he also knew he was okay as long as he was with Dean. And even though Sam had left for Stanford, there was still nowhere else he would rather be than with his big brother.

Sam blinked. He would have to tell that to Dean later; when he could say more than two words at a time.

Staring down at Sam, Dean felt emotion surge through him again, because he knew what his little brother was thinking; knew that Sam had never wanted to choose between his life and his family; knew that the kid had missed Dean as much as Dean had missed him.

Dean sighed. They would deal with that later. But for now...

"You okay?" Dean asked, knowing it was a relative question but still needing to check; knowing Sam remembered – even if only vaguely – what had just happened and needing to get Sam's input on his own condition.

Sam's eyes dipped closed.

Dean frowned. That wasn't the response he was hoping for. "Sam..."

Sam winced as a wave of pain swept over him and then coughed, tasting blood before swallowing it down, wrinkling his nose at the coppery tang.

Dean watched Sam's expressions – always an open book – and knew what had happened even before his brother looked up at him, renewed panic in his eyes.

"It's okay," Dean soothed automatically, carefully positioning his right arm over Sam's torso; lightly resting his palm on the kid's chest; further calming his brother while protecting the straw with his splayed fingers.

Sam slowly exhaled. "Hospital?" he asked, hearing Dean put the Impala in gear.

Dean snorted. "What do _you_ think?"

Sam smiled faintly, closing his eyes as he tried to ignore the constant pain pulsing throughout his body; tried to concentrate on breathing; tried to relax.

Dean felt Sam's shoulders sag; the kid's body sinking deeper into the seat as his head lolled in Dean's lap. "Hey..." Dean called, glancing down at his brother before easing the Impala onto the dirt path that would lead to the main highway. "Sam..."

"Hmm..."

"Stay awake." Dean checked his rearview – seeing nothing but dust in the red glow of the Impala's taillights – and then gently rubbed his thumb over Sam's sternum. "You hear me?"

Sam sighed and then shivered, softly gasping at the stab of pain the involuntary movement caused.

Dean frowned; one-handedly repositioning the vents before readjusting the blanket the covered his brother. "Sammy..." Dean's hand settled back over the kid's chest, his attention darting to the straw – still there, still secure – and then to Sam's face. "Sam. I'm not talking to myself here."

Sam's forehead – still smeared with dried blood – wrinkled, even as his voice slurred. "M'head...hurts."

"I bet it does," Dean agreed, his mind suddenly flashing to Ray beating the shit out his little brother's skull; and then feeling a cold satisfaction in the knowledge that the sonuvabitch was now dead; and Owen, too. Dean shook himself, focusing on the matter at hand. "I still need you to open your eyes, Sam."

There was a beat of silence; Sam seeming to slump further into Dean's lap.

Dean sighed. This was not going well. "Sam, open – "

" – Dean..." Sam interrupted, then swallowed audibly. "M'tired."

"Too bad," Dean answered matter-of-factly, even as he swallowed against the uneasy feeling in his stomach; because Sam was alert two seconds ago, and now it seemed he was fading again.

Dean braced his hand against Sam as the Impala bounced off the dirt path and onto the asphalt of the highway; his eyes looking beyond the headlights for any unexpected danger; knowing they didn't have time to spare.

Dean sighed, pushing harder on the gas pedal. "Open your eyes, Sam. You can sleep later after you've been checked out. But right now, it's wakey wakey time. C'mon..."

Dean waited, counting to ten – _twice_ – before allowing himself to look down at his brother; expecting Sam's eyes to still be closed but seeing the kid staring straight back at him.

"H-happy?" Sam asked tiredly.

Dean glanced back at the road and smiled, feeling a little of the tension unknot in his stomach. "You made my day, sunshine."

Sam's mouth twitched in what was meant to be a smile as he blinked rapidly, trying to stay awake; because it seemed important to Dean.

A few minutes passed; Dean's attention divided between watching the road and checking on Sam; and Sam's strength quickly dwindling as he struggled to stay alert; his eyes dipping closed and then startling open as he realized they were shut.

Dean shook his head; because this wasn't working. He needed to know Sam was awake without having to look down to check every five seconds; and Sam needed something to keep him engaged, to help him resist the pull of exhaustion – which meant...

_Sing-a-long._

Dean arched at eyebrow at the memory – because they hadn't done that in years – but it was a tried and true method of keeping sick or injured little brothers awake long enough to reach help.

"Okay, Sammy..." Dean began, once again checking his rearview. "AC/DC or Zeppelin?"

There was a pause.

Dean chuckled, knowing Sam – concussed or not – knew where this was going; because it was his brother's short-term memory that was affected, not his long-term. "Quit stalling and pick, bitch."

Sam huffed a laugh and then coughed because of it, wincing at the fresh flare of pain.

"Easy," Dean soothed, thumb lightly rubbing his brother's chest. "Now, which is it?"

There was silence.

"Talkin' to you, Sam..."

"AC..." Sam swallowed. "...DC."

Like Dean didn't know that would be Sam's choice.

"You know, Sam...when Zeppelin rules the world, you're gonna wish you had shown them a little more love." Dean shook his head in mock disappointment and smiled as Sam blinked up at him. "Okay, I'll take the verses; you take the chorus. And your ass better be ready when it's your turn. Got it?"

Sam nodded ever-so-slightly, literally saving his energy and his breath as he shifted under his brother's arm; waiting for his turn as Dean kept beat on the steering wheel and started to sing.

"She was a fast machine...she kept her motor clean. She was the best damn woman that I...ever seen..."

Sam sighed, always thinking of the Impala during that part. He closed his eyes, allowing the comforting rumble of the engine to wash over him, because she had been the only true home he had known. And he had missed her.

Dean continued to sing. "...she had the sightless eyes...telling me no lies...and knockin' me out with those American thighs..."

Dean smiled, thinking of all the times over the years that he had relayed his sexual escapades to Sam; making half that shit up just to get a reaction from his prudish little brother; knowing Sam often overreacted because he knew Dean expected it, got a kick out of it.

Dean glanced down at the kid he had missed so damn much and frowned to see Sam's eyes were closed. "Hey..."

Sam blinked. "M'awake."

Dean nodded, deciding not to push the issue and started singing again. "...taking more than her share...had me fighting for air...she told me to come...but I was already there. 'Cause the walls start shaking...the earth was quaking. My mind was aching, and we were making it...and you – "

Dean's voice went up at the last part, and Sam smiled, because he had missed this; had missed Dean.

Dean glanced down again. "Sammy? You okay?"

Sam nodded, feeling happy and sad and tired; really, really tired.

"Then come on!" Dean urged. "And you – "

Sam inhaled noisily, measuring his breath has he slowly released it. "Shook me...all...night...long."

Dean grinned. "Yeah, you – "

"Shook me...all...night...long," Sam answered hoarsely; shifting in his brother's lap as his eyes dipped closed.

Dean's smile lingered as he continued to drive; seeing the exit sign for the hospital as he began the second verse and feeling a burst of hope; knowing how fragile this moment was and being well aware that he was still in danger of losing Sam – either to injuries sustained or to the reality of Stanford – but still allowing himself to feel content.

Because right now, Dean had his little brother beside him...and that was all that ever mattered.

* * *

_**FIN**_


End file.
